Forgive Me For My Sins
by JamesLuver
Summary: The Devil will be the death of Sweeney Todd, tempting him with the promise of his revenge. Sweeney Todd will be the death of Nellie Lovett, tempting her with her desires. But nothing is ever simple. Toby unwittingly puts the barber and the baker in danger and they are thrust into the midst of a vicious game of life and death. A game that must come full circle. ON HIATUS.
1. Prologue: The Devil's Temptation

**Summary: **_Based on the Seven Deadly Sins. The Devil will be the death of Sweeney Todd yet, tempting him with the promise of his revenge and a better life. Sweeney Todd will be the death of Nellie Lovett, tempting her with her desire for the demon barber to be hers alone. It's been acknowledged. Accepted, even. It's been accepted silently by both for months._

_But nothing is ever simple._

_Toby unwittingly puts the barber and the baker in danger with a passing comment, and when the Judge is found murdered, they are the main suspects – they just don't know it yet. Charles Hawthorne, a police man with a thirst for corrupted justice, will stop at nothing to see Sweeney and Nellie hang…they are thrust into the midst of a vicious game of life and death, and the game must come full circle…with Sweeney and Nellie slowly growing closer than either thought possible, a tentative life of their own almost visible on the horizon, disaster was bound to strike. Will the demons of Fleet Street be able to outwit the Devil himself? Or will they lose the game?_

_Sweenett, Anthony/Johanna_

**A/N: **Greetings! :) I'm very new to the Sweeney Todd fandom (I was much too scared to watch the film when it first came out, and only mustered up the courage a few weeks ago! xD), however, it has firmly become one of my favourite movies. As soon as I saw it I became drawn by the Sweeney Todd/Nellie Lovett relationship, and I knew I just had to write a Sweenett 'Fic of my own. Despite this though, I've only seen the movie once (I know I've got it for Christmas) so the characters I am moulding are purely from memory; if they slip out of character, then you must let me know so I can amend it. :)

I haven't seen this storyline around, but since I've only read one Sweeney Todd 'Fic and haven't found the time to go moseying about the archive yet, I wouldn't know for definite. No plagiarism/copying of storylines is intended.

This 'Fic is also currently un-betaed as I don't have one for the Sweeney Todd Fandom, so if you spot any mistakes, please point them out. :)

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tim Burton, Stephen Sondheim nor anyone else involved with Sweeney Todd. If I was, it would've ended differently. ;)

* * *

_Forgive Me For My Sins_

_Prologue: The Devil's Temptation_

_The tale I am about to tell you isn't one of love and joy. It doesn't have princesses and princes, like in the stories we are told as children. No, the account I am about to divulge is torn apart by betrayal, lust and vengeance. There are no sweet whispers of love, nor are there ways of glossing the truth._

_Because that is what I'm going to tell you. Not a half-hearted story, made to have children rapt with attention, quivering in anticipation. What is to be gained from that? Nothing. For I want this tale to be passed down from generation to generation. I don't want this story to disappear as so many others have._

_So, with God as my witness, I speak the truth._

_I knew a barber once. A dark, brooding man. He appeared outwardly fine, if a little gloomy. No one took any notice of him. Why would they? He was just a barber, sent to shave and cut hair, nothing more. He was a tool, of sorts. Unfeeling, unmoving, insignificant._

_That is where people went wrong._

_They underestimated that barber. The gleam in his eyes…they did not notice it as he prowled his landlady's pie shop, restless and trapped. Driven by revenge._

_The lady of the shop was again entirely different. She was chatty and friendly, moving through the crowds of customers with fluid motions, as though in a dance. She never turned anyone away, was always welcoming with a cup of ale and a fresh meat pie. And she was the only one who could indeed tolerate the barber. She fed him and kept him warm and was eventually pulled into the twisted games. Did she try to resist the temptation of growing close to such a demon? No, never. She was in too deep. Driven by love._

_The boy who lived with them during this time was a sweet thing. Innocent, naïve and perhaps a little stupid, but undeniably sweet. He followed the woman he called a Mother around like a puppy, helping her when the business was booming, desperate to prove himself to her. He could never bring himself to trust the barber who lived above them, but there was nothing he could do to stop his Mum from making her choices._

_Because, more often than not, our decisions are made for us. There is never any other way. No one can stop us when our mind is made up._

_So the boy had to contend himself with his silent vow of protecting her no matter what._

_Some decisions are not ours to make._

_The world did not pay attention to the three lives on Fleet Street. Perhaps if it had, things would have been different._

_I will speak no more of it now; the events will explain themselves. They are woven intricately with bloodied silver threads which cannot be ignored._

_The tale of Sweeney Todd, will, in time, be told._


	2. The Boy Named Toby

**A/N: **Chapter ONE is the new update. I've decided to go about it a different way. Please review anyway! :D

**Edit: **I realise that Toby's past is not strictly correct; at the time, I'd seen the movie once when I wrote this. Since it is a minor glitch, however, I'm not going to change it. :)

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.

* * *

_The Boy Named Toby_

There are many places for evil to lurk: in the harsh voices of the overseers; in the darkest corners of the filthy alleyways; in the most honest of faces.

For Tobias Ragg, this statement cannot ring truer. He is only a lad at a tender age in life, but already he has been witness to many profane crimes in his short time upon God's green earth. Slaving away in the workhouse has only increased his sense of distrust, viewing London with eyes older than they ought to be. He can still recall the stinging slices of the whip across his back, hears the snapping of his weak bones sometimes in the dead of night when he lies curled up next to the dying embers of the fire in Mrs. Lovett's parlour.

He drinks to forget.

Life with Mrs. Lovett is as near to luxury as he will ever get. He has a warm sofa at night, all the pies he can eat, gin to help him sleep. Mrs. Lovett always lavishes him with motherly affection, fussing around his thin frame, forcing him to take a bath despite his weak protests. (_"We never bathed in the work'ouse."_

"_Well dear, this ain't the work'ouse an' 'avin a bath is compulsory…")_

He returns her affections by helping her out whenever he can in the shop, a job which is much less taxing than the workhouse or being Pirelli's assistant was, and much more enjoyable. In any case, she is the best Mum he will ever have. She is better than his old one had been. He can barely remember her; a faceless individual whom he feels nothing for. She had abandoned him in his hour of need, forced him to grow up too young. Left him in hell with a hundred other people. He supposes he misses her a little (after all, despite everything, she _was_ his Mother) but he can't force himself to like her. She had a choice between her husband and her son, and she chose her husband, bastard though he was. She left little Toby in Hell.

Hell is not a nice place to be.

Yes, he loves Mrs. Lovett far more than his own Mum.

Which is why he worries about her so. Worries that Mr. Todd – the silent, mysterious barber who rents the room upstairs – will be the end of her. Toby can feel it in his bones; Mr. Todd will hurt her. He cannot comprehend why his Mum – usually so wry and shrewd – is so protective of her tenant, won't hear a word against him. He sees the devotion shining in her eyes every time Mr. Todd enters the room, though this is a rare occurrence in itself. She'll bustle around the parlour, pouring him a tumbler of gin, placing hot bowls of questionable soup in front of him (which he never eats anyway) and stopping to chatter amiably with him despite the work which needs doing in the shop.

Toby does not understand grownups.

Nor does he trust Mr. Todd.

While it is obvious to Toby how much his Mum evidently adores Mr. Todd, it seems that the barber has no idea of it himself.

That, or he chooses to ignore it.

And this is what makes Mr. Todd another entity entirely. He is silent and moody, spends his time upstairs, never eating, never sleeping. Toby hears him at night, the floorboards creaking beneath him as he roves the shop like a caged animal. Never resting. He follows Toby with those dark, empty caverns of his, emotionless and dead. Those eyes scare Toby; he is sure there is more to him than he lets on. The boy can sense an icy rage which devours him. The man knows pain, and can cause it too. The boy just isn't sure how yet.

He is not tender to Mrs. Lovett, treats her like the dirt on the streets of London despite everything she does for him. He snarls at her, blames her for everything which he cannot control. Yet she will not hear a word against him, scolds Toby whenever he expresses his concern in gentle tones.

Mr. Todd is so very different from his beautiful Mum.

She is blinded alright.

And he doesn't want anything to happen to her.

He vows to protect her.

She is honest.

She is good.

She is perfect.

She is too good to be true.

Too honest?

Too good?

Too perfect?

Perhaps…perhaps she is too good to be true. But Toby still makes the vow. She is all he has, all he loves. She has saved him from a terrible fate with Pirelli and his cruel treatment. She gives him love and warmth.

With God as his witness, he will protect her.

* * *

_The devil hides in all of us, tempting us with the promise of a better life, whispers of our heart's desires. We all have the power to do good. We all have the ability to do bad._

_All we need are the seductive words of the devil._

_All we need is the loss of control._


	3. The Colour Red

**A/N: **Merry Christmas everyone! :D I just wanted to update today since it _is_ Christmas…the next chapters will be longer as I start to mould the plot a bit, but I wanted to write this to sort of set the scene for the next. :)

**Edit: **What the heck happened with the formatting? I've sorted it now.

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.

* * *

_The Colour Red_

_Start with a memory. Anything that makes you angry. Something that torments you, makes you grow restless and furious. The colour you see when you're angry…it's red, isn't it? Red, the colour of blood. Of war. Of pain. Red is the colour we associate with anger so hot it burns. Not black, the absence of light and goodness. Not white, the absence of memory, for there can never be a way out of your antagonism. It's red: hot, blistering red._

_I__magine this rage consumes you. There is no way of channelling your aggression, no way of getting rid of this horrifying, smothering ire. It makes you want to tear out your hair, scream until your voice is raw. Still it does not relent. The insatiable desire only grows stronger, until you are afraid it will be the end of you. So what do you do?_

_You kill._

_Imagine the rush it brings you, to watch someone's life slip away. Many of_ _you will recoil in horror at such a request, but the darkness is there, inside all of us. Some of us just do a better job of burying it away, locking the demon within us up in order to protect others from harm. A flicker, just a fleeting fancy, and we can control the urge._

_Some can't. And that is their downfall._

_You murder once. You think that will be the end of it – a vent of sorts, a release. A way of silencing the demon within._

_It can never be silenced. It bays for more blood every day, until you have to listen. There is no alternative. It consumes you. Violence _becomes_ you. And there is no way of escaping._

_Life is just a game, see? A sick, twisted game aiming to separate the strong from the weak, the good from the bad. There is no in between in the world's eyes. You're either going to become an angel, a patron for God, or you'll become a demon, burn in the pits of Hell. The game has a beginning. It's that little voice in your head, whispering promises of a better life to you. Whispering of the power which comes with killing. The middle of the game depends entirely on the path you decide to follow. If you succumb to the darkness or rise above it. And the end…the end depends on the path you choose to follow._

_T__he game must come full circle. It's the rule. So cast the dice and place your bets. Who knows whether you'll win or lose?_

_Only time will tell._


	4. Wrath, Part I

**A/N: **I can say, without a doubt, that I am still alive. I know it's taken me ages to update this, but rest assured I am not abandoning it. I'm just a slow worker. Always will be.

I've made the decision to split this chapter into two parts. This one is over 9,000 words as it is, and I think there will be as much as another 5,000 on top of this. So I've split it here and posted the first half while I write the rest. :)

I don't know whether I did the right thing with writing this in the present tense, but once I'd started it in the past I kept catching myself switching tenses…so I decided to write it all in the present. Let me know if it's OK like that. Also, this is currently unbetaed. If there are any mistakes – grammatical or otherwise, please point them out and I will amend them at once. :) (There are some grammatical errors in the speech, but that was intended.)

Oh, and I may have gone overboard with Nellie's accent. Apologies for that. I started this chapter after one viewing of the film, and couldn't remember how she spoke.

The second part will continue directly after this. After all, I can't forget about Toby, can I? Let me know what you thought of this – I had a really tough time writing the Beadle, so I hope I've done him justice. I'll try not to be too slow updating, but don't hold your breath. :P

Ooh, I have a question for you…who is your favourite Sweeney Todd character? Like I was looking on Youtube and another website, and a lot of people seemed to hate Nellie and love Sweeney…my favourite is Nellie because she's awesome, but I love Sweeney second most. :) So who is your favourite?

**Notes worthy of mention: **In this, Lucy Barker did succeed in killing herself with the arsenic.

**Warning: **There is some swearing and gore ahead. Not much, but it's still there.

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1.

* * *

_4. Sin One: Wrath_

_December 1846_

_Beware the wrath of a patient adversary. – _John C. Calhoun

* * *

Strop, pause, inspect. Strop, pause, inspect.

Sweeney Todd continues this monotonous routine as he stares unseeingly out of the window. Ever since his return to London three months ago, the barber has had nothing better to do.

Strop, pause, inspect.

For three endless months he has thought obsessively of nothing but ways to have his revenge on the Judge. He dreams of the day he will slice the bastard's neck open, feel the rush of his warm blood. And, of course, he thinks of his family. His _butchered_ family. His dead Lucy and his estranged Johanna.

Strop, pause, inspect.

Even now, when this notion has had time to sink in, he still refuses to believe it. How can his Lucy – his darling, beautiful Lucy – be gone? How can his daughter be in the care of a monster?

Strop, pause, inspect.

It seems Sweeney Todd's life has become nothing but a never ending chain of _if onlys. _If only the Judge had never set eyes on Lucy. If only Barker had not been taken away. If only the Beadle and the Judge had not lured his dear Lucy from the safety of the pie shop. If only Lucy had not defied Mrs. Lovett and taken the poison. If only Mrs. Lovett had been able to stop the Judge from taking Johanna as his own. If only that damned sailor boy had not burst in when Todd had had the Judge in his chair, in the grasp of death. _If only._

Strop, pause, inspect.

The clouds are dark and oppressive; as Todd watches, the first snowflake swirls gently to the ground. He hasn't seen snow in fifteen years; Christmas in Australia was typically the same as the summer – unbearably hot. There was no break from the spirit crushing work, the prison guards still quick to dish out the punishment with a vindictive lash onto the backs of the weary men.

Strop, pause, inspect.

It occurs to him this will be the first Christmas he'll have spent in civil company for fifteen years. He growls inwardly at the thought, hoping Mrs. Lovett does not force him to sit with her and the boy at dinnertime. He doubts he can tolerate her bright chatter _all day_, and the boy irritates him just by being there. No, he would much rather spend the day alone, pacing the barber shop, lost in a happier time.

Strop, pause, inspect.

Who does he think he is fooling? Of course Mrs. Lovett will make him join her at the table – the bloody woman won't take no for an answer. He wishes, not for the first time, that the little baker was as indifferent to everything as he is.

Strop, pause, inspect.

The snow is falling fast now; frenzied swirls of ashen powder pounding down on the unforgiving streets. Todd follows the flakes with a vague interest for a moment before tearing his gaze away, casting it instead on the sign of life below.

Strop, pause, inspect.

The gentleman hurries through the snow purposefully. His cane hits the cobbles with an echoing _crack_ as he strides towards his destination, unaware of the barber's eyes on him. At last he disappears from view, ducking under the mouth of the pie shop. His arm reappears momentarily as he shakes the snow from his top hat, before the distant merry jingle beneath Sweeney signifies his entry into the warmth.

Strop, pause, inspect.

Soon the gentleman will ascend the rickety staircase to the tonsorial parlour on Mrs. Lovett's recommendation, and it will be up to him to deem whether the man will be missed. If he will, he'll escape with a smooth face, unsuspecting of how close to death he'd come. If not, he'll be the next secret ingredient in Mrs. Lovett's pies.

Strop, pause, inspect.

It's the start of a new day in the household. He can hear his landlady's friendly tone rising through the floorboards. The conversation is muffled but Todd doesn't care. The silence is better. And now he best prepare for the business ahead of him. He turns away from the window as he discerns the footsteps outside, conjures a slightly menacing smile to his face. The door creaks open to reveal the fellow he'd watched earlier.

Strop, pause, inspect.

* * *

By dinnertime the place is teeming with people seeking refuge from the cold weather. Nellie bustles through the crowd, serving pies with a smile as Toby scurries after her, attempting to supply the never-ending demand for more ale. There is never a minute for herself when the trade is like this. Nellie dumps another plate of pies onto the nearest table and wipes the sweat from her forehead away with the back of her gloved hand. She loves the work owning the pie shop brings, but on days when she can barely think before another customer is calling her, she cannot wait until closing time.

"Mum?" she hears Toby shouting over the noise of the people as he fights his way through the crowd to her. "Mum, we're all outta pies!"

Nellie groans. "'Ow can we be? I on'y made another batch ten minutes ago!"

Toby shrugs desperately. "I dunno. But we ain't got none left…ain't you gonna fetch some more?"

Nellie could do that, but she knows for a fact that Mr. Todd hasn't killed anyone this morning. The people who had gone up for a shave were clearly too important to dispose of. As a result, Nellie is out of fresh meat. Which means no more pies. If she wishes to continue her trade tomorrow, she'll have to venture to the market and buy some decent meat from the butcher. It's not like she can't afford the luxury now.

Yelling to be heard above the noise, Nellie announces, "Alright everyone! Shop's closin' for the afternoon! I need to go to market for some more meat – I'm clean outta it now! I won't 'ave any more pies ready until tomorrow! Finish your pies an' go so I can close, please!"

This is taken with many grumbles as the customers heave themselves to their feet, shuffling towards the door, unwilling to face the bitter storm which is brewing outside. As soon as the last person leaves the comforting refuge of the warm shop, Nellie snaps the door shut and flips the sign to _closed_ with a flourish.

"It's been madness this mornin' love, ain't it?" she sighs, closing her eyes as she leans back against the cold glass.

"Yes, Mum," the boy agrees dutifully, sneaking a sip of gin from the tumbler he is carrying while Nellie is not looking.

"S'pose I oughta get this lot tidied up 'fore I go to market then," she says, eyeing the mess on the tables. "Lord, Toby, I swear they're all pigs."

"Why don't you get to market, Mum?" the lad suggests, grabbing the brush from the corner. "I can 'ave this cleaned up 'fore you're back. I don' really feel like comin' with ya today, an' it'll mean you'll be quicker if ya go now."

Nellie falters for a moment. "You sure you're alright wi' that, love?"

Toby nods, already sweeping the floor with gusto.

"Well, if ya really don' mind, I'll get off so I can get back an' start bakin' pies for tomorrow. I'll jus' pop in on Mr. T, make sure he's alright."

"Right Mum," Toby says, and waits until she's left the room before pulling a bottle of gin from its hiding place on the shelf.

* * *

"Alright Mr. Todd?" Mrs. Lovett hums as she enters the room. Sweeney doesn't look up from his methodical stropping – the continual scraping against the stubble on cheeks blunts his precious friends far quicker than he would like.

"I'm off to market," she informs him as she lingers by the door. "I need to pick up some things. Meat for one, what with you not 'avin' anyone to kill this mornin'."

Sweeney gives a non-committal grunt, holding the blade up to inspect his work. The silver is sparkling once more, sharp enough to bite at the slightest touch. When he looks up, he realises she is still here.

"Do you wanna come with me, love?" she ventures. "'T'd do you good to get outta this place once in a while, and with the weather like this, 's'not like anyone'll come by. I've closed me shop up, an' people usually come to you from me."

Sweeney resists the urge to growl as she continues to chatter, eyes wide and hopeful. Why does this woman insist on irritating him?

"Fine." The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it; if it is possible Mrs. Lovett's smile grows larger.

"I'll wait outside for ya then," she says, and slips from the room before he can change his mind.

Sweeney grits his teeth as he slowly places his razors in the holster at his side. Why does she always have to do this? Why can't she understand that he hates the crowds of London, would prefer to watch them bitterly from above rather than stand amongst them?

_Insufferable woman._

Slowly, realising that childishly delaying like this is not going to make the unpleasant experience pass any quicker, Sweeney reaches for his coat to cover his threadbare shirt and pulls on his fingerless gloves as an afterthought. The weather outside is chilly, with the snow still berating the ground, and although they won't do much to help, the gloves might at least stop his hands numbing altogether.

Grinding his teeth, he follows Mrs. Lovett out of the door.

* * *

"This is lovely, ain't it?" Mrs. Lovett says happily as they enter the market. It is not as busy as normal (the icy cobbles and the vengeful white powder is evidently making sure of that) but Sweeney still wrinkles his nose in disgust as the too-loud, raucous sounds of the square violently assault his ears. This filthy pit is many things, but lovely isn't one of them.

They pause beside a fruit stand as Nellie bends down to view the variety of colours with critical eyes, and the barber stands by stoically as she barters over price. She haggles it down impressively (he feels a stab of what might have been admiration, but he hasn't felt it in so long he isn't sure _what_ it is) and they move on, towards the bread stall.

"Could do with a loaf," she muses, and proceeds to scour her eyes along the selection. It is at this moment, when Todd raises his gaze to sweep the rest of the market, that he sees him. The person he hates more than anyone.

The Judge.

Todd is surprised he has come outside at his own will; Sweeney rarely comes out himself, but on the rare occasions he _does_ accompany Mrs. Lovett, he has only ever seen the Beadle. He is sure the market is above Judge Turpin on most days. He wonders what has drawn him out.

Nellie feels him freeze next to her, and drops the loaf she had been about to purchase. She follows his icy gaze, lays a warning hand on his arm.

"Careful, love," she murmurs softly but he pulls away, weaving his way through the throng towards his prey. Nellie casts one last longing glance at the heavenly bread in front of her before hurrying to catch up with her tenant.

He comes to a rest silently behind him as the Judge runs his hand along the spine of a book on the stall in front of him.

"Judge Turpin, sir," Sweeney says in a low voice; the man's shoulders tense, the only indication that he has been startled.

"Mr. Todd," he says in a bored voice, not bothering to turn around.

Todd bites his tongue, somehow restraining himself from slitting the bastard's throat on the spot. Instead he injects a respectful tone into his voice. "I'd just like to apologise once again for the sailor's appalling attitude. He had no right to talk about your ward in such a way."

"That much I can agree with," the Judge nods, glancing over his shoulder. "I trust you severed all bonds with him at once?"

"That we did, sir," Mrs. Lovett announces her arrival with a bright smile. "The little bugger won' be showin' 'is face 'round me shop anymore." It's not the truth, but the Judge has a history of spouting vicious lies for his own ends so she has no qualms in spinning the tale.

Turpin finally graces them with his full attention, inspecting Nellie as though trying to gauge the genuineness of her statement. Nellie stares back, eyes wide and innocent – she has perfected this look painstakingly; now it is second nature. At last he seems to deem it truthful, for he gestures carelessly to the two men flanking him.

"You've met Beadle Bamford before, it would seem," he says as the Beadle tilts his hat in recognition, smarmy smile upon his face as he eyes Nellie.

"That we 'ave," she says dutifully, raising her voice to drown out Sweeney's quiet snarls. "But I don' reckon we've seen yer other companion, beggin' yer pardon, sir."

"Not at all," the man dismisses with an attempt at a benign grin that is more like a leer. His large, walrus moustache twitches when his lips curl, and the buttons on his waistcoat strain desperately against his generous stomach. He offers her his hand, which she takes. His are meaty and slick with sweat. "The name's Charles Hawthorne." He kisses her knuckles.

"Delighted to meet ya, sir," Nellie says, pulling her hand free of his slimy grasp, subtly shifting to the side as she feels Sweeney reaching for his razors.

"I assure you," Hawthorne purrs, piggy eyes boring into hers, "the pleasure is all mine."

"Mr. Hawthorne has moved here from the city of Leeds," Turpin informs them. "I'm here showing him the spots where the most crime is committed. He's the new head of the police force here. We're more determined to stamp out crime in this city than ever before. If that wretched sailor comes within ten feet of me, he will sorely regret it."

Nellie's smile is frozen in place as the Judge speaks – he's practically admitting he tampers with the law! _Yeah, I bet 'e will an' all, _she thinks contemptuously. _You an' yer bloody false charges…the boy may be a pest what don't know 'ow to knock to save 'is life, but 'e won't 'ang if I can 'elp it…_

"I noticed you said you had a shop," Hawthorne interrupts. "And where, may I be bold enough to ask, is this establishment?"

"My pie shop is on Fleet Street," Nellie supplies. "An' Mr. Todd's tonsorial parlour is just above me. 'E's the best barber in town, 'e is."

"And I'll offer you a free shave as form of my apology," Sweeney says in a low voice. "It is the least I can do."

"Perhaps," the Judge replies uninterestedly, but Hawthorne's eyes widen at the prospect of a free shave.

"I'll certainly drop by sometime, then," he says.

"You do that, sir," Todd says with a somewhat grim smirk. "I can guarantee you the closest shave you'll ever know." The familiar murderous glint in his dark eyes does not escape Nellie's notice.

"If that is all, I really do need to be going." Turpin says with a pointed glance at the tower clock. "I have important business to attend to."

"Certainly, sir," Sweeney manages, stepping back to give the Judge room to pass. Hawthorne kisses Nellie's hand once more before following in Turpin's wake. However, the Beadle hangs back, a somewhat sour expression upon his features.

"I have some business of my own to discuss with you," he states, keeping his gaze trained on the retreating backs of the Judge and Hawthorne. "So I'll be popping over when you've closed shop for the night."

"Right you are, sir. I'm not openin' this afternoon, but if you could pop round at seven it would be greatly appreciated," Nellie responds, and he nods curtly before hurrying off after his companions.

"Seems to me ol' Beadle Bamford is fallin' outta favour of the 'onourable Judge Turpin _in_ favour of that slimy ol' git 'Awthorne," she comments, wiping her hands on the folds of her dress in a desperate attempt to rid her skin of the horrifying feel of Hawthorne's mouth clinging to her. "At least 'e might not be missed for a while when 'e conveniently disappears…I don' reckon 'e'll be tellin' anyone where 'e's goin', not tonight."

Mr. Todd merely grunts, but she can tell this notion has satisfied him. She touches his arm briefly, and he seems to get the hint as he follows her reluctantly back towards the bread stall. She knows that this new revelation from the Beadle will have filled him with a purpose for the day, and it's obvious that he wants nothing but to be alone in the barber shop, with the ghosts and memories for company. She knows he wants to spend the hours between now and the Beadle's arrival planning his revenge meticulously. If he doesn't get the Beadle, he won't draw the Judge out.

It's the rule of the game.

"C'mon then, love," Nellie says, handing over a few pennies and shoving the loaf into the fruit bag. "We best be gettin' back. Lord only knows what Toby's managed to do to the place. 'E's a sweet thing but I don't know if I did right leavin' 'im on 'is own…I 'ope 'e's tidied up like 'e said 'e was goin' to do."

They make one last stop at the butcher's for some meat, and Sweeney shadows her all the way back to the pie shop, tuning out her carefree chatter. She doesn't seem to require an answer anyhow, words spilling from her at a hundred miles an hour and changing continual direction so frequently it would make Sweeney's head spin if he tried to follow.

The Beadle is coming. This is all the barber can focus on. His fingers find his razors, latching securely onto the familiar grooves worn in by many years of use. Soon the Beadle's blood will be running freely down the shining silver, its warmth gushing over him as he slices through soft tissue, splitting his throat cleanly in half; he'll listen to the terrible gurgling as the Beadle fights for oxygen, will draw great pleasure watching him take his last desperate breath.

He'll take fifteen years of pain out on him. He'll kill him for Johanna.

He'll kill him for Lucy.

He'll kill him for himself.

Once Beadle Bamford is disposed of, he'll be one step closer to the Judge. One step nearer to closure.

It is an exhilarating and terrifying thought.

* * *

Nellie bids Mr. Todd a cheerful goodbye and slowly pushes open the door to the pie shop as he ascends the stairs to his quarters.

"Toby?" she calls, heaving her goods onto the shining work surfaces. "Where are ya, love?"

No answer.

Giving a huff of irritation, Nellie leaves her groceries and casts a critical eye over the shop. It's true the mess is gone, but where is the boy? Shouldn't he be waiting in here for her? She looks in all the possible places he could be hiding in, ducking under tables, checking in the cupboards. When finally she's examined every inch of the pie shop, she deems there can be only one more place where he could be. Treading quietly, she disappears into her living area.

Toby is sprawled on the parlour floor, a bottle of gin loose in his grasp.

_Little bugger,_ Nellie thinks with a tut of annoyance, and prods him with her boot. He stirs underneath the touch, blinking blearily as he tries to focus on her face.

"Tobias Ragg," she says sternly, placing her hands on her hips in an attempt to appear strict. "What 'ave I told you about drinkin' in the day?"

"Sorry, Mum," the boy says, words slurring slightly as he squints to keep her in focus. "Finished all t'jobs y'see an' didn't think it'd 'urt to 'ave one drink…"

"Or one bottle," Nellie adds shrewdly, shaking the aforementioned object to see how much is left. "Blimey Toby, you've drank nearly all o' it!"

Toby mutters another apology as he heaves himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Nellie rolls her eyes as she observes him severely, deciding to drop the matter. "I've got a special errand for you tonight. I 'ope you've sobered up 'fore then."

"Yes, Mum!" the boy says at once, snapping to attention at once. "Anythin' you ask! I'll be right as rain 'fore then!"

"Good," she smiles, ruffling his hair. "Now, 'ow about you an' me bake some lovely treats, hmm?"

The boy nods enthusiastically, wincing slightly at the discomfort in his head.

"Come on then," she takes his hand and leads him into the pie shop. "What do you want to make, love?"

"Can we make biscuits? I 'aven't 'ad one o' them in ages!"

"Course, dearie," Nellie replies cheerily, bending down to retrieve a bowl from under the cupboard. "Get the rollin' pin an' flour out, then."

Half an hour later they're both covered head to foot in flour, giggling at the mess they've created. Toby pulls the last half dozen biscuits towards him and proceeds to put the finishing touches to them. Nellie smiles fondly, watching him poke his tongue between his teeth in an effort to keep his hand steady. She's so engrossed in the relaxing task that she doesn't realise the shop door has opened.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

She jumps at the sound of her name being growled, turns to find Sweeney Todd standing behind her.

"Mr. T!" she scolds. "Almost gave me an 'eart attack you did! 'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell you not to sneak up on me like that!"

Clearly the barber is not listening to her; his gaze is latched distastefully on Toby as he drizzles melted chocolate onto the biscuits.

"Love?" she prompts, and he finally turns to her again.

"I need a word," he says tersely.

"Alright dear," she says expectantly, but he looks pointedly at Toby and jerks his head.

"Outside."

Nellie follows him back into the cold, shivering as it assaults her skin.

"Well?" she encourages, eager to return to the warmth of her shop. "What is it?"

Mr. Todd glances through the glass (she notices Toby quickly averts his curious stare) and growls, barely moving his mouth, "the boy cannot be here when the Beadle is."

"Don't worry," she reassures him. "I 'ave everythin' under control. I'm gonna send Toby to run some errands a few minutes before the Beadle arrives. 'E'll be outta the way then so no one can question 'im when the Beadle goes missin'. 'E won't even know 'e was 'ere. Nothin' to stop you now, Mr. T." She accompanies this with a feral grin and Todd can't help but smirk too. This woman truly is a bloody wonder.

"Just make sure you come down in good time, love," Mrs. Lovett continues, glancing surreptitiously at the boy. "Don't want 'im suspectin' nothin'. Why don't you 'ave tea with us, eh? I'll do us some beef, 't'was always your favourite when-" she cuts herself off. "Just be down at 'alf five, alright?" In actual fact, Sweeney does not need to come down – the boy will be out of sight before the Beadle arrives so it won't be necessary – but she does love his company even if he is silent and brooding for the most part, so she can't resist inviting him down, coating it with excuses which aren't needed.

Sweeney considers for a moment, frowning. "Alright," he grunts, turning away. Nellie shakes her head, rolling her eyes affectionately. That man has such a way with words.

"What did _'e_ want?" Toby asks darkly when she re-enters the pie shop. He's managed to get melted chocolate all over his face; his brown eyes burn intensely through the mask. Nellie does not fail to notice the venom dripping from Toby's tone; the boy is scrunching his nose, glowering.

_"Mr. Todd,"_ she says pointedly, "didn't want much. 'E was wonderin' whether it was worth openin' 'is shop for the afternoon, what with the weather bein' so dreadful." She cringes inwardly. Generally Mr. Todd does whatever he pleases, damn the consequences. Toby knows this as well as Nellie herself does. Still, the lad nods his acceptance, albeit suspiciously, and returns to decorating his biscuits.

"An' I invited 'im down for dinner as well," she adds quickly, deciding it best to get the boy's reaction over with now rather than later. "'T'ain't 'ealthy for 'im to be locked up there all alone. An' especially not at Christmas, poor dear. 'E needs some festive cheer, that man."

The look Toby shoots her now lets her know he's anything but happy with her decision, but his reaction isn't as bad as she expected; he wisely keeps his mouth in a firm line, discontentment kept to himself.

"Oh, don't these look lovely?" Nellie says, sensing a change in subject is needed. "Why don't we try a few at dinner, hmm? Then the rest we can 'ave Christmas Day."

The idea cheers Toby considerably, and the boy goes around tidying away his mess with a smile on his young face. Nellie is glad he is so easy to please.

"Listen, love," she says as she wipes down the floury work surfaces. "I reckon I need to tell ya about your errands. Don't wanna forget now, do I?"

"No, Mum," Toby grins, peeking into the oven to check his biscuits. "What do you want me to do?"

Nellie is glad she's given this some thought. "I need you to find the sailor boy. You know Anthony, don't you love?"

"I reckon I do, Mum."

"Find 'im and tell 'im to come over Christmas Day for dinner. I 'ate to think of 'im all alone at Christmas."

"Anythin' else?"

"Yes, dear. Pop to the butcher's an' see if we can pick up our beef for Christmas yet. An' if we can, get it for us. I'll give you a few pennies to pick up some toffees for yourself as well." The butcher's is a good distance from the sailor's lodgings. It will take the lad a good hour to make the round trip – plenty of time for Sweeney to dispose of the Beadle.

Toby smiles at the promise of his favourite treat. It is only on rare occurrences that he ever gets to eat such sweet delicacies; both he and his Mum are often too busy to afford a leisurely trip to the sweet shop near St. Dunstan's.

"Thanks, Mum!" he cries gleefully, shooting a dazzling smile at her. Nellie rolls her eyes, ruffling his scruffy hair affectionately. Why is it men are so easily persuaded with the bribery of food? Well, normal men, Nellie quickly amends. Mr. Todd doesn't fit into this category. Although, she _is _surprised he agreed to sit and have dinner with them. She knows he's only doing it for the sake of his revenge, but even that thought cannot slaughter the tiny bubble of hope that dares to well up inside her.

Tearing her thoughts away from these spirit-lifting ruminations, she turns back to Toby. "Go'n' 'ave a bath while I start on dinner."

"Aww, Mum, but I 'ad one yesterday!" he whines.

She fixes him with a stern look. "Yes, an' yer've managed to get yourself all mucky again, what with this flour an' chocolate. We can't 'ave you doin' errands lookin' like a street urchin, can we? You've gotta look like a proper little gentleman."

"Yes, Mum," the boy sighs, defeated, and traipses off to presumably have a bath.

"An' be sure to wash behind your ears!" she calls after his retreating back.

* * *

Sweeney Todd glances at the clock as he throws a clean shirt on. Twenty to six. Mrs. Lovett expects him down now. He checks the state of his room for the hundredth time as he stows a razor on his holster. Nothing seems out of place, nothing there to give him away. The picture of his darling Lucy and Johanna is hidden under the loose floorboard, out of sight; it would not do for the Beadle to notice it and escape before Todd could finish him off. That action would see him hang for certain. Todd does not wish to die before his revenge is complete.

The only thing he has to overcome now, he thinks as he descends the stairs, is how to persuade Bamford to go into the barber shop. After all, he's not coming over to see the barber specifically: he's coming to see Mrs. Lovett. Todd scowls, mulling over possible solutions to the problem. He could offer him a free shave as soon as he arrives, before he goes to see the baker about the official business. However, if he is eager to get his business finished he might not be so easily persuaded, and it would look suspicious if Todd pressed the matter too much. Or he could wait until _after_ the official business…but what if Bamford discovers something unsavoury about the meat? There are some human bones still in the bakehouse. What if Sweeney can't get to him before he leaves? That would certainly pose a problem for the scheming duo…

No, something foolproof has to be thought of. Todd just doesn't know what yet.

The bell to the pie shop trills merrily as he steps inside the welcome warmth. He shakes the snow from his hair, stamps his boots on the mat and trudges forwards, trailing wet powder in anyway. His landlady isn't in sight but he can hear her humming in the kitchen, and smell the aroma of some kind of meat.

"Toby?" he hears her say happily, "set three places at one o' the tables, would you love?"

"Right, Mum!" comes the reply and seconds later the boy is in sight, carrying three sets of cutlery deftly in his practiced hands.

Sweeney waits.

"Oh," he says somewhat sullenly as he notices the stoic barber. "'Ello Mr. Todd, sir."

"Did you say Mr. Todd, love?" Mrs. Lovett sings, following the child at once, a cloth in both hands. She flashes him a brilliant grin and winks. "Sit yerselves down dearies, I'm just servin' dinner up. I'll be back in a tick."

She disappears into the back again, leaving a tense silence in her wake. Toby begins to set the places as instructed, barely sparing a glance for the barber. He pointedly pushes his cutlery to the place next to him when Todd slides into the booth, so he can sit across from his Mum instead of the silent man. The barber barely seems to register it; he is staring at the faded photograph of Mrs. Lovett's deceased husband. Toby half-wishes the man was still here (although he doesn't know if Mr. Lovett would want a scruffy child around); that way his Mum might not be so inclined to show Mr. Todd affection, and she might not spend so much time trying to get him to notice her.

Toby sits himself down stiffly, not taking his eyes from the barber. However, the man does not glance his way; he has switched his gaze to the doorway to the back, a frown upon his face. He seems to be staring after Mrs. Lovett. Toby does not like it when he does this either. The small boy would prefer to have the man's chilling gaze fixated upon him rather than his Mum. Who knows what dark, terrible thoughts spring forth in his mind at these moments?

The man cannot be trusted, plain and simple.

"'Ere we go dearies," Mrs. Lovett announces cheerfully as she carries in two heaped plates of dinner. "Can't 'ave the two men in me life goin' 'ungry, can I?"

Toby tucks in as soon as the plate is placed in front of him, but Todd merely casts a suspicious glance at it, prodding it mistrustfully with his fork. The boy feels like telling him it won't bite, but deduces it's better to say nothing; he'll earn himself nothing but a reproachful clip around the ear from Mrs. Lovett and Lord only knows what from the barber. The man doesn't look like someone who would take kindly to being mocked.

"What meat is this?" he asks, tone laced with a strange sense of trepidation as he stabs a piece and raises it to eye level.

"It's beef," Toby says, thinking it's the most obvious thing in the world. _"Sir,"_ he adds as an afterthought, all too aware of his Mum's partially raised eyebrows.

Satisfied, she turns to the barber, winks knowingly. "Don't worry love, me special ingredients are for me customers only." She pops a chunk in her mouth as though to prove a point, sighing delightedly at the way it melts on her tongue. "See love? Just beef."

Todd seems to believe her after that, and begins to eat in silence. Toby's used to this. It's happened before on rare occasions – Mr. Todd gets so hungry for a proper meal that he allows Mrs. Lovett to badger him into joining her for dinner. She'll place a healthy sized portion in front of him and he'll proceed to eat every last morsel in near silence, grunting every now and then to Mrs. Lovett's never-ending chatter. These times make Toby uncomfortable, but there is nothing he can do about it. Mrs. Lovett says everyone has to eat sometimes, even Mr. Todd.

Dinner passes without incident.

"'Ow about we try them cookies o' yours then, eh?" Nellie says as she's clearing their plates away. "Toby love, do you wanna fetch us some?"

Reluctantly the boy leaves the table, and Todd takes the opportunity to mutter under his breath, "how long is this gonna take? It's quarter to seven already, for God's sake!"

Nellie stares with shock in her wide eyes, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Yer bloody jokin', ain't ya?" she squeaks, panic setting in. Toby needs to be well away before the Beadle gets here…

"I don't think this is anything to joke about," Todd snarls back, deathly gaze trained on her.

She opens her mouth to speak again but Toby re-enters the room, carrying another pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, so their argument is cut short. Sweeney glares at her a moment longer before averting his gaze, but Nellie knows what it had been saying.

_Sort it out. Or I will._

"'Ere you go, Mum," the boy smiles, placing the plate in front of her. "You wanna try the first one?"

"On second thoughts," Nellie says hastily, "I ain't that 'ungry after that big meal. 'Ow about we save 'em 'til supper, eh? Give us somethin' to look forward to?"

The boy looks crestfallen. "So you don't wanna try 'em? 'Aven't I done 'em right, is that it? I _knew_ I shoulda put more chocolate on 'em…"

They're already smothered in the milky substance. "No, no they're fine," Nellie insists desperately. "It's just, well…" she glances at Mr. Todd. "Mr. Todd an' I…we've got things to discuss. In private."

Toby's eyes narrow. "What things?"

Nellie shakes her head. "Not now love. Look, why don't you go out an' do yer errands, an' when you get back me an' you'll 'ave a few o' these…"

Toby turns away from them, heading towards the door. The hurt on his face is inescapable. "Whatever."

"Toby darlin'," Nellie says, standing up, "please don't be like that…"

He ignores her, opening the door jerkily and calling over his shoulder, "I know when I'm not wanted!"

Nellie stops dead, her blood freezing. Is that what he thinks? That he's unwanted whenever Mr. Todd is around? Suddenly she doesn't care that the stupid Beadle is coming. She just wants to envelope the lad in her arms and smooth out his worries.

"Toby!" she hollers after his retreating back, but he continues on, swallowed by the darkness at the end of Fleet Street. She bangs the door shut and rounds on Mr. Todd.

"'Appy now, are ya?" she snaps. "Poor bugger thinks I don't want 'im any more!"

Todd resists the urge to tell her his ears are working perfectly fine, knowing she'll only throw the _well, that's a first_ line back at him. Instead he settles for muttering, "how do I get the Beadle up to my shop?"

Mrs. Lovett plants her hands on her hips and glares at him. "Don't ya even care that the lad might not come 'ome?" Silly question. Of course he doesn't. There is no love lost between the barber and the boy. Even _she_ isn't blind to that.

He will come home. He _will_. He has time to cool off. He'll be fine when he returns.

"How?" Todd is still muttering to himself, glowering at the table as Nellie moves the plate of biscuits and places it carefully on the side. She has no intention of helping him with his problem, not when she's so miffed. After all, it's _his_ fault Toby left in such a mood.

She's still glaring at him when there's a smart rap on the door. It can only be one person.

"Get the door," Sweeney growls, hand slipping to his razor.

Nellie complies, pushing her worry about Toby to the back of he mind, and is greeted by the Beadle's slimy face.

This is it.

* * *

Toby stops at the end of Fleet Street, leaning against the wall and trying to control his breathing. He hadn't meant to snap at his Mum. He's just so fed up of being second best. _Mr. Todd_ and she needed to speak in private, so that's left him out on his ear. He's warned her countless times about the dangers of being loyal to the barber, and yet she still sees fit to disregard his misgivings. He knows what she's thinking: _Toby's young. Toby's naïve. Toby's stupid. _She thinks she knows best, but she doesn't. Not on this matter.

His breath comes out in little clouds as he kicks through the snow moodily. She doesn't mean to treat him like a child, he doesn't think, but it wouldn't hurt her to listen to him once in a while. He _knows_ he's right about the barber, whether she wants to admit it or not.

But, God, he's left her there with _him_, alone! Toby might be angry with Mrs. Lovett, but he'd sworn to protect her. Yet, by storming out like that, he isn't. He hasn't been honouring his promise.

At once Toby peers around the corner, wondering if Mrs. Lovett would be angry with him for returning without doing the errands she'd given him. Well, he can do them later when Mr. Todd has left. He'll hide if he has to. In the back. Anywhere, as long as he can react quickly if he needs to.

He's halfway down Fleet Street when he sees him. That squatted gait is familiar. Toby frowns. What is the Beadle doing here? He rarely moves from the Old Bailey, following the Judge Turpin around like a puppy. The lad pauses as he watches. The Beadle doesn't appear to want to be seen; he's casting glances over his shoulder every few seconds. Toby flattens himself in a doorway, protected by the shadows as the man comes to a stop in front of…_Mrs. Lovett's! _Just what is going on? What does the Beadle want with his Mum?

The door to the pie shop opens, and Mrs. Lovett's clear tone rings out in the frosty air: "'Ow nice to see ya, sir! Come in! Would ya like a meat pie…?"

The door closes again. So his Mum is expecting the Beadle? Toby shrugs. It's all very confusing. He considers walking the remaining distance, but decides against it. She's probably mad at him for walking away like that earlier. If he finishes his errands like instructed, she might be satisfied and overlook his outburst.

In any case, no harm is going to come to her while the Beadle is around.

Toby turns around again and disappears into the night.

* * *

Beadle Bamford enters the pie shop and squints at the woman in front of him. She's smiling winningly, her warm brown eyes fixated charmingly on him.

"So, what can I do for you today?" she asks, retreating to her work counter and leaning her elbows on it casually. The Beadle wonders if she knows this enhances her already ample cleavage, or if it is inadvertent on her part.

"Well," he clears his throat and draws out a sheet of paper in order to occupy his gaze. "I'm here on official business. There have been several complaints made against your establishment."

"Me shop?" Mrs. Lovett frowns. "Can't imagine what, sir. All me customers 'ave been satisfied in the past, ain't they, Mr. Todd?"

Bamford notices the barber for the first time. He's sat in the shadows of one of the booths, face drawn into a scowl. Something about that expression makes the Beadle shudder inwardly, but he pushes it to the back of his mind. He's sure his discomfort is unfounded. The dear baker would never house anyone dangerous, despite her own sometimes foolish tendencies.

Todd shakes his head slowly, spitting, _"no,"_ as though it is the hardest thing he's ever done. Bamford's sense of foreboding intensifies.

"What is it then?" Mrs. Lovett is speaking again, cocking her head to one side in order to survey the Beadle quizzically.

Trying to ignore the discerning feeling gnawing at his stomach, the Beadle says, "the complaints have been made against the stench of your chimney at night. This situation can't continue so I'll need to take a look at your bakehouse."

A thrill of fear, cold and menacing, caresses her spine, but she manages to keep the trepidation from her voice all the same. "Me bake'ouse?"

"Yes. It's why I'm here, good lady."

She glances at Mr. Todd. He is staring out of the window with a frown, lost in his thoughts. Still trying to conjure a brilliant plan to get the Beadle into the barber's shop, no doubt. Annoyance flares within her. He could at least _try_ to help her out here. How are they going to keep him out of the bakehouse…?

And then it hits her.

Of _course_. It's so simple, so practical, so appropriate…

So brilliant.

A genuine smile graces her face now. "O' course, sir. Right this way. I trust you'll be able to dismiss these complaints when you're satisfied?"

Bamford inclines his head, brushing past the baker, his hand just straying lower than appropriate. "Yes, m'lady. When I'm satisfied."

His meaning cannot be mistaken. Nellie's smile freezes as his eyes rake her bodice; Mr. Todd chooses this moment to turn to them. His face darkens at the sight but he waits until the Beadle moves to the back before he crosses the room to close bruising fingers over her wrist.

"What are you doing, woman?" he hisses dangerously. "I need him up in my shop, not down in your bloody bakehouse! As soon as he sees the state of that place he'll be out for the law!"

"Mr. T, you're 'urtin' me!" she gasps, and he relinquishes his hold reluctantly. "Listen," she continues urgently, "I've got it. I'll let you down into the bake'ouse with 'im and ya can kill 'im down there! 'S'much easier that way – place is already filthy…"

He has to grudgingly admit it; it's a bloody good idea. Practical yet appropriate as ever, is Mrs. Lovett. "Fine."

Relief washes over her face as she motions for him to follow her, and he does so. The Beadle is stood tapping his cane leisurely on the wooden floorboards, but ceases it immediately when he catches sight of the barber.

"Mr. Todd always unlocks the bake'ouse for me," Nellie lies easily as she throws open the hatch. "Me poor bones is weaker than they used to be, but Mr. T is strong, ain't ya?"

He grunts, then leads the descent into the cold darkness. Their steps clunk heavily, the echo ricocheting on the callous stone walls.

They reach the bottom and Sweeney unlatches the door effortlessly before stepping inside with a deep breath to combat the smell. The Beadle follows, gagging immediately when the stench of rotting flesh assaults his nostrils. Nellie brings up the rear, but she lingers in the doorway.

"We're right above the sewers," she informs him. "'S'where the smell comes from."

The Beadle doesn't respond; he's tentatively moving forward to inspect the bake oven. Mr. Todd turns to her, jerks his head in a gesture which is almost imperceptive: _get out._

She casts a last glance around the room; the Beadle is running his slimy hand over the oven door, Mr. Todd is moving silently towards him purposefully, determination setting his face. Then she slips through the door, closes it quietly and slides the bolt across noiselessly. The Beadle and Sweeney Todd are trapped inside.

She listens a few seconds longer, straining to hear a sound that might give away what is happening inside. Nothing yet.

She walks away.

* * *

Sweeney Todd approaches the Beadle from behind with the stealth and grace of a lethal predator. His grip tightens on his razor as he withdraws it. It glows a burning orange, the light from the oven dancing over it, casting intricate patterns over the smooth metal. It is the blade of a demon, being wielded with such skill it is breathtaking.

The Beadle seems to be done inspecting the oven; he turns around only to almost walk straight into the barber who is now breathing down his neck. He gives a start at their close proximity.

"Excuse me sir," he says when it becomes apparent the man is not going to move of his own accord. "I haven't finished my investigation."

"Then allow me to be of assistance," Todd growls, eyes glinting with a primitive, wild madness. Bamford is trapped between the oven and the man. His eyes dart from Todd to the space where Mrs. Lovett is.

Was.

He hadn't seen her leave. Surely she's here somewhere…

A quick sweep of his surroundings tells the contrary. He's here, alone, with the mad barber.

"I…I haven't got time for this now," Bamford mutters, trying not to appear intimidated. "I have to finish this up quickly so I can get home."

"Then allow me to be of assistance," Todd repeats, and hoping to put a bit of space between them more than anything else, Bamford reluctantly nods his assent. It doesn't achieve the desired effect.

"Take a look around you," Todd says quietly. "What do you see?"

The Beadle stares at him for a moment before averting his gaze hastily, realising that not doing what he's been told won't please him.

"Everything…appears to be in order," he stammers, hoping fervently that Mrs. Lovett will return and shoo this insane man away. He'll form a complaint to Judge Turpin, that's what he'll do. The Judge should be able to get him carted off to Bedlam…or better yet, Australia…

Todd lets out a hollow bark of laughter at this comment, and before the Beadle can move, the barber has a hold of him around the throat, slamming him against the oven. "Are you truly that stupid? You really believe that? You believe that this smell just comes from the sewer?"

"I – I don't kn-" he begins to choke, but Todd has lost interest in his reply; he drags his lumbering figure over to one of the corners hidden in the shadows. Bamford is forced to stare in horror at the sight in front of him.

Terror, pure unadulterated terror, courses through his veins. His hands shake. Bile claws its way up his throat. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

Remains. There's no mistaking them. _Human_ remains. Ribcages stripped completely of bloody flesh, large bones, bits of spine snapped cleanly…the Beadle yanks out of Todd's grasp as far as the barber will allow, and empties the contents of his stomach onto the filthy floor.

"What is this?" he asks weakly, feeling his knees shaking under his weight.

"What indeed?" Todd muses calmly, his eyes flickering with fascination over the remains. Suddenly his gaze snaps back to the Beadle, and sweating now, the man sees the insanity within.

"I – I demand you release me at once, sir!" he says, voice an octave higher than usual due to his panic, and the barber relinquishes his grasp wordlessly. The Beadle practically runs to the stout door, tries to wrench it open. It does not budge.

Locked.

"Help!" he settles for screaming. "Mrs. Lovett, unlock this door at once, or I shall have the law on you!"

"Mrs. Lovett won't come," Todd's voice is laced with amusement as he fingers the razor at his side lovingly. "She left you deliberately."

The Beadle's eyes are wide as he whips his head around at the confirmation, but Todd merely stares at him nonchalantly. His heart is beginning to beat faster at the delicious promise of what is ahead. He is unsure of how he's managed to stay so calm during this time with one of the men who had ruined his life, but he _does_ know that it won't last much longer.

"In answer to your question," he growls, "let's put things together, shall we? You're meant to be an intelligent man, after all." His smirk is feral at this. He then says abruptly, "I'm a killer, Beadle Bamford. Those men over there? I murdered them. I slit their throats when they came in for a shave. They deserved to die."

The Beadle moans loudly at this, as if he's in pain. He begins to tug futilely at the handle again. "You won't get away with this," he squeaks.

The smirk widens. "Oh, believe me, I will."

"Mrs. Lovett…"

"Is as much a part of it as I," Todd informs him. "How else would the evidence disappear?"

Coal eyes meet brown ones. And the Beadle finally understands.

"Well done," Todd snarls, all pretences dropped. The madness in his eyes is blinding. "She cuts 'em up an' bakes 'em into pies an' sells 'em to the whole of London. Personally, I think Beadle pie is long overdue…"

And then, with a primitive howl, the barber pounces. Squealing, the Beadle dodges out of the way, the glinting face of the razor nicking his skin. The red droplets trickle down his neck, staining his white shirt; the metallic stench of his own life devours his nostrils.

"You're mad!" he yells, tripping when the barber turns and grabs him easily. "Barking mad!"

Todd's countenance changes then. "How fitting you should bring that up," he says softly, raising the razor. "Because I'm doing this for a reason. Fifteen years ago, you committed a terrible offence. It's your job to take care of the community, but you've continually abused the trust given to you. I don't suppose you remember a man named Benjamin Barker?"

Benjamin Barker. How can he forget? The man convicted of a crime he didn't commit, a man torn away from his wife and child so the Judge could take the family for himself…but what has that got to do with anything?

"How do you know him, sir?" he stutters, half-raising his cane with the vague notion of cracking the madman around the head with it and making an escape.

Todd smiles for the first time then, baring his teeth. The sight is bloodcurdling. "How do I know him? Take a look at me."

Bamford does so.

A mass of tangled black hair with that distinguishing shock of white. Eyes of tourmaline, black and cold, boring into his very soul. Pale skin, so pale it has a deathly glow.

"Really look at me," he snarls.

And then it hits him. The past fifteen years melt away. The black softens to wavy brown locks. His eyes lighten to a warm chocolate brown. His skin becomes tanned from the gentle stroke of the sun.

There is no mistaking him.

"Benjamin Barker!" he gasps, fear and realisation lurching clumsily through his stomach. Sweat accumulates at his temple; he wipes away the trickle of blood from his neck.

"_Benjamin Barker!" _the man screams, and then lashes out. The razor carves the air, slicing the Beadle's cheek. Blood spurts forth, and the man howls as the razor arcs again. A second flash, and the blade splits his throat…

Bamford knows, in that instance, why this is happening. His hands shoot to his throat as he gurgles, drowning in his own blood. _He doesn't want to die._

But he understands.

Flashes of broken images invade his vision; images of a barber disorientated and confused, begging to be released; a terrified blond woman, cowering and screaming; a dark haired lady almost inconsolable, a babe wrenched out of her arms…

He chokes for breath, gagging when the metallic substance bursts into his mouth and dribbles down his chin. The pain doesn't stop; the cold blade rips into his tender flesh again and again and again, digging deep, almost to the bone…

Slitting deep into his shoulder. A slice for Lucy.

Burying into his leg. A slice for Johanna.

Slashing him in the face again, so hard it splits his eye. A slice for himself.

Todd does not stop until the Beadle's convulsing body stills. He tears the flabby flesh away deliberately as he removes his razor, holding it up to inspect. It's red. Pure, arousing red. The sight calms him. Slowly he inhales the scent. The handle slips in his hand, slick with the warm blood, and through the smeared rubies, Todd can just make out his face. Blood is already congealing at his temple due to the heat of the bakehouse. The liquid makes his clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin, but he barely registers it. Serenity he didn't think he could _feel _anymore descends on him; his mind, for a blissful moment, is at peace. He continues to stare at the dead body, not really seeing.

He feels liberated. Free.

It's a feeling he thinks he can get used to.

He doesn't feel the smile grace his face. He doesn't feel his muscles relax.

He's still in the same position when Mrs. Lovett deems enough time has passed. She catches sight of his face – genuinely smiling – and halts in shock. Without the dark frown marring his features, he looks beautiful.

"Mr. T?" she says softly, unwilling to disturb the peace but knowing she must if she wishes to get rid of the body before it becomes impossible to. "You alright, love?"

The world appears to slowly come back into focus for Sweeney Todd. The harmony on his face surrenders to the harsh lines of anger once more. His eyes darken with the embers of his wrath.

"I'm fine," he growls, brushing off the accompanying hand. _At least, I will be when the Judge is dead._

"Well, if you're sure…" Mrs. Lovett eyes him uncertainly, folding her arms.

"I am," he snaps, and with that he sweeps past her, leaving the baker to deal with the carnage he has left in his wake.

* * *

Nellie waits until the door has shut before turning to the chaos in the room. The Beadle's body is slumped awkwardly against the wall. Blood oozes from his eye socket, the damaged retina bleeding red. The crimson liquid has dried on his plump face, congealing and grotesque; it drips slowly from his gaping mouth. The gash on his cheek is raw and bloody, stretching and splitting his lip, leaving him with a monstrous half-smile etched on his features. It truly is a gruesome sight. Nellie has seen customers with varying levels of damage depending on the unstable barber's state of mind, but never before has she witnessed something like this. Bile rises in her throat for the first time since she'd cut up Pirelli (she'd been unable to keep her stomach lined when she'd been forced to gut him like a pig), but she steadies her breath and forces herself to take the Beadle under the arms. He is by no means a light man, and she struggles to drag him over to the bake oven, but at last she succeeds. There is no point in using the Beadle for one of her pies; he is already beginning to stiffen, and she doesn't believe her stomach would be able to take it at the present time.

Wasting no time, she heaves the Beadle into a more manageable position and hauls him into the oven. The terrible stench of burning human flesh assaults her senses, and she watches with a perverse satisfaction as the former Beadle shrivels before her eyes; first his hair, then his skin…

Liberation. Freedom. It's finally coming into sight. Only Judge Turpin stands in the way now. Once he perishes (she has no qualms that he _will_ – Mr. Todd will see to that), then Sweeney Todd's purpose will have been filled. Which will leave him with a gap for a new one.

In time, perhaps she can teach him how to love again. She certainly loves him enough for the both of them. Perhaps, with gentle probing and undying devotion, she can get the demon barber to feel things other than fury and vengeance. And then things will be perfect.

The air is thick with the stench of burning human, but Nellie Lovett can only smell the exhilarating scent of the salty sea breeze.


	5. Wrath, Part II

Toby slowly eases himself back into the pie shop, cringing at the shrillness of the bell. The shop is in darkness; Toby squints to discern the objects which lay in wait as he places the meat in the cold storage and cautiously makes his way to the parlour.

The hour is late, but the little candles dotted about the place are flickering feebly. Adjusting to the sudden source of light, the boy realises Mrs. Lovett is still up. She's curled up on the settee, head slumped against her arm.

"Mum?"

She doesn't move, and Toby carefully steps into the room. He pauses in front of the baker. She is fast asleep. Toby feels a stab of guilt at this; Mrs. Lovett is clearly exhausted, yet she still tried to stay awake to greet him. She should be in bed, conserving her energy for the long day in front of her. Gently, he reaches out a hand and brushes a few errant curls from her face. She stirs under his touch, brown eyes focusing blearily on his little face.

"Toby!" she gasps, sitting up at once. "I thought you weren't comin' back!"

Another wave of shame overcomes him as he stares into her relieved eyes. He regrets the fashion in which he left hours earlier even more now; now he's had the chance to calm down, he's realised how childish he was acting before.

"Thank the Lord," Mrs. Lovett murmurs. She reaches up and cups his cheeks between her calloused hands. "Was worryin', I was."

"I'm sorry," Toby says softly, sliding onto the seat beside her. "Wasn' my intention to worry ya. I didn't mean what I said earlier either. You're the best thing that ever 'appened to me, an' I should remember that. You could toss me out onto the streets again an' I wouldn't blame ya, not after me behaviour tonight. I was just feelin' annoyed, an' I took it out on you. Can ya forgive me, ma'am?"

"Oh, love," she whispers enveloping him in her arms; he snuggles into her side. "O' course I forgive ya! I could never throw ya onto the streets, yer like me own son! What would I do without ya now?"

Toby stays silent, tucking his head under her chin. He closes his eyes, soothed by her comforting presence.

"So," she says softly after a moment, wanting to change the subject, "how was the errands, love? You find the sailor boy all right?"

"Yes," Toby mumbles. "'E said 'e would love to 'ave Christmas dinner with us. 'E says 'e needs a word with Mr. Todd anyway. I collected the meat too, an' I left it in the cold storage for ya."

"That's a good boy," she smiles fondly, dropping a kiss into his hair. "Knew I could count on ya."

"An' I bought us some toffees like you said," he adds solemnly, producing the rustling bag from his pocket and holding it out like a peace offering. "D'ya want one?"

She takes one with a smile, chews on it thoughtfully. "I'm sorry fer earlier too," she says. "It was just…Mr. T an' I 'ad things to discuss, an' it weren't somethin' you should be listenin' to."

"Why?" he asks curiously, but Mrs. Lovett shakes her head.

"Adult stuff, dearie. Just about the business. Don't you go worryin' yer 'ead about it no more."

"Okay," Toby says, snuggling closer until he's more comfortable. He sits quietly, regarding the dying sputter of the candles, pondering the night. He wants to ask her about the Beadle's visit, but fears this would not be a wise move. Obviously the Beadle hasn't evicted her from the pie shop, so everything must be fine.

Placid, even breathing reaches his ears. He glances up. Mrs. Lovett is asleep again, her face smooth and peaceful. He half-wonders if he should rouse her enough to get her to her bedroom (she'll be stiff in the morning if she remains here), but decides against it. She's tired. Best to let her rest.

Toby settles back down, his eyes sliding shut. His last coherent thought is his bemusement that he doesn't need to drink himself to sleep when he's in the baker's warm embrace.

* * *

The next few days pass in a blur for Nellie. Snow continues to fall, prolonging the odds of a white Christmas, bathing the streets of London with a coat of pale dust. Toby has forgiven her for pushing him out on the night of the Beadle's death, and things have gradually returned to normal. Mr. Todd, of course, has barely spoken a word to her, has gone back to brooding over the Judge. It doesn't matter at the present time. Nellie knows she'll get through to him. One day.

"Mum?"

Nellie looks up at the sound of Toby's voice, pausing in the middle of rolling the dough. "What is it, dear?"

"Can I go out for a bit?" he asks. "I'd love to make a snowman."

"Course ya can," she beams. "'S'not like the shop's open, is it? This bad weather is makin' sure o' that. G'on an' enjoy yourself."

"Thank you!" he grins, surprising her with a hug before dashing outside into the thick powder.

Nellie shakes her head, smiling as she watches the boy scoop up handfuls of the wet substance. Toby may have had to grow up far too quickly for his age, but it melts her heart to see him like this, full of childish innocence, piling snow in a haphazard shape for the foundations of a snowman. He deserves this much, these snatched moments of escape. To be an ordinary child like the countless others around him. She understands how rough his life has been up to this point; her heart breaks every time he awakens in the dead of night, screaming and lashing out, delirious with fear of ghosts only he can see. She knows Toby likes to appear strong, but at these times sobs wrack his body and he cries openly into her nightgown as she rocks him comfortingly.

On those nights she lets him share her bed. It seems to soothe him, being curled up in her warm embrace. He sleeps soundly the rest of the night.

Nellie pounds the dough forcefully as she rolls it for the base of her apple pie. Some of Toby's more obscure comments about the workhouse make her shudder openly. The dreadful Eye-talian treated him terribly, but it seems the abuse he suffered at the hands of Pirelli was nothing compared to the cruelty which he'd experienced at the hands of the dirty, old men in charge of him at the workhouse. How someone could ever want to hurt such a sweet, simple thing is beyond Nellie as she sees him pause to push his unruly hair from his eyes. It's getting quite long, she thinks distractedly; she'll have to persuade Mr. Todd to give it a trim, though she'll have to stay nearby in case the barber gets the sudden urge to slit the boy's throat…

The bell tinkles, dragging her back to the present.

"Back already, love?" she calls, looking up from the apples she's cutting.

Her blood freezes.

It isn't Toby who has just entered the pie shop.

It isn't even Sweeney Todd.

It's Judge Turpin and his new accomplice, Charles Hawthorne.

* * *

The faint euphoria brought on by Beadle Bamford's murder has slowly dissipated, leaving Sweeney Todd as hollow as he was before his revenge on the man. He stares morosely out of the window, stropping his razor monotonously, not really seeing the street below. He vaguely registers Mrs. Lovett's boy scooping up the snow, but his main focus is on Lucy. His destroyed angel. He glances at the photo on the bureau. Oh, his precious darling, maimed by that filthy bastard…Todd grits his teeth, tightening his hold on his silver friend. It winks reassuringly in the light. Yes. He'll have his salvation with the Judge, if it's the last thing he ever does…

Movement attracts him in his peripheral vision, and he turns back to the window with irritation that the boy should distract him. But it's not the boy.

It's the Devil himself. _The Judge._ And the new policeman – Hawthorpe, Hawthorne? – the two of them trudging slowly through the burdensome snow. Todd stares, rooted to the spot; he watches them from his invisible position as they pass by the boy (Hawthorne tips his hat, but Turpin ignores him outright) and disappear into the pie shop below.

All at once a thousand thoughts ricochet around his head, but one is blatantly clearer than the others: his opportunity is here. He can do it right now. Be rid of everything; finally have his revenge for Benjamin and Lucy Barker. He can slit the Judge's throat, watch him gurgle as he slices through his windpipe, hear him inhale his own blood instead of oxygen…he can free Johanna, finally meet his daughter…

And then his twisted joy fades. No. It can't be here. Not now. He can't dispose of both the Judge and Hawthorne in broad daylight. Two high profiles in society; their presences would be missed, and someone would trace them back here. In any case, Mrs. Lovett's boy is just outside. He would certainly waste no time in running to the law – his mistrust for the barber can't be any plainer. The boy must know nothing.

However, there is nothing stopping him finding out what the two want. He has a pretty good idea, anyway.

There's no harm in knowing what you're up against.

* * *

Toby rubs his hands together to stop the spreading numbness as he stands back to analyse his work. The workmanship is shabby, but for the first attempt it could be worse. Now he just has to construct a head.

He begins to pile more snow together, rolling it up and compacting it tightly to form a haphazard ball. He's in the middle of this when he hears something behind him. Toby turns, thinking it might be one of his Fleet Street friends, but then realises that none other than the Judge Turpin is crunching through the snow towards him, flanked by a man he does not recognise. A thrill of fear chases up his spine. When a man of the law tracks you down, it's never good. Toby has seen it enough from his brief spell on the streets with another two boys from the workhouse. They'd escaped and had been dragged back by the ear by a stern faced officer with the grim promise of being severely punished if it was ever to happen again.

Needless to say, he's never broken the law since, too terrified of the consequences. Which leaves him wondering what he's done this time.

"G'mornin' sirs," he says politely, keeping the tremor from his voice as best he can, a nervous smile on his face. Turpin pointedly ignores him, but the other gentleman tips his hat with a benign expression – which should quell the boy's fear but doesn't since the look doesn't quite reach his mean eyes – and they push open the door to Mrs. Lovett's pie shop.

Toby's blood freezes.

What can they possibly want with his Mum? She's never done anything immoral! She's a good citizen, works hard every day to earn a living and keep a roof over their heads. She's kind and sweet and beautiful; what can possibly be wrong?

He's started towards the pie shop with no other thought but to protect her in his mind, when the door leading to Mr. Todd's tonsorial parlour crashes open, rebounding on its hinges. Toby stops to stare up at the barber's deadly grim face as the man takes the stairs two at a time with the grace of a cat.

Oh. Of course. _Him._ The law wants _him_, not Mrs. Lovett. The barber is clearly unstable; Toby wouldn't put anything past him. He wonders if Mr. Todd knows he's going to be arrested. Wonders if Mrs. Lovett knows, too. Toby fervently hopes the baker doesn't try to protect the fiend; he knows how fond she is of him, no matter how much he wishes she wasn't.

"What's goin' on, sir?" he calls, but for the second time he's ignored as Mr. Todd yanks open the door and enters the establishment below. The door swings to in the boy's face.

_Left outside again, _he thinks somewhat bitterly, turning to his pathetic snowman and kicking it down. Furious tears spring to his eyes and he swipes his knuckles roughly over them. He's a grown boy now. Grown boys don't cry. But he can't stop thinking, _will it always be this way?_

He'd thought he'd moved past this stage the night he returned from his errands. He'd thought he'd understood his Mum's position better than he had done before.

And this infuriates him. Grown boys don't throw a fit when they're not needed – they shrug silently and slouch off, lingering within calling's distance with a cigar, just in case the time comes when they're inevitably needed again by their Mothers. Toby wants to be like this. In order to protect Mrs. Lovett from harm, he has to become a man. Which means leaving his childish fears behind him.

Resolutely, Toby returns to fixing his destroyed snowman. If Mrs. Lovett needs him, she'll call. For now, he has to trust her.

* * *

For the first time in an age, Nellie is speechless. Blind panic takes her mind hostage. She stares wide-eyed at the two men who have just entered her shop. The reason for their visit is all too clear to her.

The Beadle.

She mustn't let her fear show. Men like the Judge can smell it a mile off; he'll have twisted everything to suit him before she knows what's hit her. Pasting what she hopes is a welcoming smile onto her face, she dusts her hands over the counter and hurries around it.

"Good day, sirs!" she says brightly. "What an 'onour! 'Ow can I be of service? Please, sit down!"

"I don't think that's necessary," Turpin says coldly, but Hawthorne moves towards a booth and squeezes himself inside, his stomach pushing painfully against the table.

"Pie?" she offers the plate, licking her lips nervously. Turpin narrows his eyes and shakes his head distastefully. Hawthorne nods and greedily takes two.

"These are really quite good, ma'am," he says around a mouthful of pastry and priest. "You are an accomplished baker, no mistake."

Nellie doesn't like the way he's leering at her. "Thank you, sir."

"Enough of this," Turpin snaps, features twisting. "I am here about –"

The door swings open with a bang, revealing the dark profile of Mr. Todd. He strides into the room, black eyes flickering dangerously.

"What's going on?" he barks, drinking in the sight. Turpin is stood near the door, bristling; in contrast, Hawthorne is sat leisurely at a table, eyes roving Mrs. Lovett's body. Possessiveness surges through his veins. The woman may irritate him beyond anything with her incessant chatter (he's even gone as far as pinning her against the wall with a razor to her throat a few times to preserve the silence), but no woman should _ever_ be leered at like that. It's a look he imagines was on Turpin's lecherous face moments before he deformed his fragile Lucy…

Women shouldn't be subjected to that sort of torture.

"Ah, Mr. Todd," Turpin sneers. "Perhaps it's a good thing you're here. You can give your – how shall I put this? – _opinion_ on the matter."

"What matter?" Sweeney growls, strategically placing himself between his landlady and Hawthorne's licentious gaze, at such an angle that Mrs. Lovett won't recognise what he's doing. If she did, she'd doubtless start swooning, thinking he _cared – _

"The matter of Beadle Bamford's disappearance."

Sweeney and Nellie both freeze. They've envisaged possible ways for the scene to play out, but it is another thing entirely to hear the words in Turpin's damning tone.

Nellie is first to speak. "What do you mean, sir?" She frowns quizzically, injecting confusion into her tone. "The Beadle's disappeared? 'Ow awful! 'Ow do you know?"

"I haven't seen him since Wednesday, when he departed my company after dinner," Turpin says. "And he hasn't turned up for work for the past three days."

"Well, sir, I dunno why you're talkin' to me 'bout it," Nellie shrugs nonchalantly. "I ain't gonna be able to 'elp ya, am I?"

"Oh, I think you can."

Nellie and Sweeney exchange furtive glances.

"'S'cuse me?" she squeaks, forcing her breath out steadily.

"I was going through the things in the Beadle's office," Turpin says slowly, evidently seeking a sign of nerves. "And do you know what I found there?"

Nellie loathes how she's been opened to this line of question. "No, sir."

"Then let me enlighten you," Turpin withdraws a crisp, white piece of paper and unfolds it carefully. Even from this distance Nellie can read the words emblazoned across the top: _Official Business – Complaints. _

"Do you know what's interesting?" the Judge says silkily, his finger trailing down the page like it would a woman's body.

"No, sir," Nellie repeats, though she can feel her back suddenly doused with cold sweat. Mr. Todd slips his hand to his holster. The hot metal of his friend burns his skin, reassuring him.

Turpin lunges forwards – Nellie flinches, Sweeney shifts impulsively – to dangle the sheet in front of the baker's face.

"Read it," he hisses, his voice dripping venom, and Nellie takes it with composed hands. Mr. Todd crosses the room and reads it over her shoulder:

_Official Business – Complaints._

_Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium – several complaints have been made against the stench from the chimney at night._

_09/12/1846 – inspect the premise and record any findings. Possible follow-up reports in due course._

Sweeney and Nellie finish reading at the same time and she hands it back wordlessly, her heart thumping painfully against her ribcage. _Shit,_ they hadn't thought about this happening, they hadn't considered that the Beadle might leave a note detailing his whereabouts…how are they going to get out of this one?

Sweeney raises his dark eyes, thinking fast. "What are you suggesting, Your Honour?" His words are quite clearly strained, forcing his voice to keep calm.

"I'm not suggesting," Turpin says primly. "I'm accusing."

Nellie goes cold. Pure, unadulterated terror grabs her heart in an iron fist. Her breath catches in her throat. She feels like she's floundering, drowning in her panic…_how does he know?_

She's about to let out a shaky breath and ask just that, but Mr. Todd's hand closes subtly around her wrist for a fraction of a second. The fleeting touch sears her skin, and her alarm eases.

His touch always calms her.

"Well, sir," the barber growls, "the Beadle might've been coming here, we're not disputing that, but I can assure you he never arrived. I was sat here all evening with Mrs. Lovett, and no one visited. Must've disappeared before."

"You expect me to believe that?" Turpin snarls, and Todd's face loses its forced pleasantness.

"The decision is yours, sir," he snaps. "I can't influence you. But I will say this: you won't find anythin' here."

"Because you've destroyed the evidence."

"No, because he was never here."

The two men glare at each other; the contest is broken by Hawthorne. He clears his throat and stands with difficulty.

"Leave it," he murmurs to Turpin. "They obviously know nothing."

Turpin opens his mouth to argue, notices the look on police officer's face, changes his mind, and nods curtly. Without another word he turns on his heel, the door shuddering in its frame showing his fury.

"I'm sorry for taking your time," Hawthorne apologises, reaching for Mrs. Lovett's hand, seemingly oblivious to Sweeney's hard stare. He brushes his lips over her knuckles, the shameless glint never leaving his eyes as his gaze lingers on her cleavage. He then tips his hat jovially at Todd and steps outside the door.

Only then does Nellie allow herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank God that's over, eh? Thought we was finished, I did."

"Lucky I didn't lose my head then," Todd grumbles, moving towards the booth Hawthorne had been accompanying moments before, and sliding into it. "I thought you was the practical one?" He actually doesn't mean to sound so irritated, but his blood is boiling from the after-effects of the Judge's close proximity and Hawthorne's lustful glances…his fingers automatically twitch for his razors as he replays the scene in his head. How he'd managed to keep his friend from plunging into the men's smug features, he'll never know. He supposes it was a miracle, especially when he could hardly speak from the overwhelming memories of Lucy and Johanna it brought with it; thoughts of their dreadful fates, the fates he was powerless to prevent…

"Oh, 'ush you," Nellie says good-naturedly, her bright mood returning to her after her scare. "'T'was just a surprise, seein' that note, is all. We'll 'ave to be more careful from now on, eh? Don't want that bloody policeman nosin' 'round 'ere anymore than 'e needs to…I don't trust 'im at all, bloody ol' pervert."

Sweeney grunts his agreement, watching her move around the shop with fluid motions. Although he's loathe to admit it, he's glad she doesn't trust him. Hawthorne is not openly deceitful like the Judge is or the Beadle was; no, his cunning is more like that of a cat, creeping, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. They'll have to be cautious around him.

"Celebratory drink, love?"

He realises Mrs. Lovett is holding a tumbler of gin out to him, a smile on her face. Todd shrugs, then takes it.

"'Ere's to foolin' 'em all!" she says gleefully, clinking her glass against his. Sweeney allows a smirk to grace his face, taking a gulp of the clear liquid and relishing the way it burns his throat.

It's times like these he actually _accepts_, with her grinning devilishly across at him, raising her own tumbler to her lips, her eyes dancing deviously…

It's times like these she _adores_, when those dark eyes are upon her, really seeing _her_ and not something in his past; not his _Lucy…_

The feeling is like opium.

Neither of them notice the vultures outside, closing in on their prey.

* * *

As soon as Hawthorne steps outside, Turpin rounds on him, his face flushed scarlet with anger.

"What do you think you're doing, undermining my authority like that!" he spits.

"It wouldn't be wise to have them suspect too much, my Lord."

Turpin scowls as they begin their journey up Fleet Street. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"I was merely preserving our cover. I know as well as you that they know more than they're letting on. Todd especially. He is not to be trusted, Your Honour," Hawthorne says. "But he's already wary of us. If you'd continued your line of questioning, my Lord, you would've clamped him up irreparably. We need a different approach if we want to unveil him for what he is."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

Hawthorne smirks knowingly. "The baker, of course. You only have to look at her to see what she is: a whore. And whores are only after one thing. I'm sure, with the right _persuasion_, she'll crumble and tell me what she knows."

The Judge considers this, still frowning. "I won't have you getting in my way. I trusted you in this because I needed your involvement without the rest of the force interfering. Don't make me regret that." _Because you will, too._

"Not to worry, sir," Hawthorne says, smirking. Then he stops dead. Turpin follows his gaze.

Up ahead is Mrs. Lovett's ward, fashioning himself a snowman.

That's when the idea hits Hawthorne.

"You, lad!" he calls, turning towards him, Turpin not a pace behind. "What's your name?"

The boy looks up, his eyes guarded as he realises who has approached him. "Toby, sir."

"Toby," Hawthorne smiles disarmingly. "I need you to do something for me. Can you do that?"

"Might be able to, sir," he says carefully, evidently determined not to reveal anything that could be classed as incriminating.

"Could you tell us if Beadle Bamford dropped by here last Wednesday?"

He fancies he sees a flicker of unease flit over the boy's face. "Why?"

Turpin quickly catches on. "Because Mrs. Lovett says he did, and the Beadle is insisting he didn't. She isn't in trouble, lad; we're just wondering why there seems to be a mix up about something so trivial."

Toby's face relaxes. In that case…if his Mum isn't in trouble…"'E did, yeah. I was goin' out, but I saw 'im go in. 'E was gone by the time I got back though."

Hawthorne smiles triumphantly. "Thank you, Toby. You've been a great help."

"You're welcome, sir."

The two leave the boy in the snow, waiting a safe distance before speaking.

"That was easier than I imagined," Hawthorne chortles, tapping his cane on the ground. "The stupid lad; doesn't realise he's just put a noose around their necks!"

"We still have to prove it," Turpin says somewhat sourly. "Unfortunately it won't do to make up a false charge. We need solid proof for an allegation like this, just in case the Beadle does turn up again. Though the chances of that happening are next to none."

"Oh, don't worry. I know how we can acquire the evidence."

Turpin raises a sceptical eyebrow. "You've given it some thought already?"

"Oh, yes. Here's how we'll do it…"

* * *

Toby stays outside until it's almost dark, packing the snow together with a frown upon his face. He understands now why his Mum spends so much time making pies; the art of having something to craft takes your mind completely away from any other thoughts. Toby is glad of this. He doesn't want to sort through the turmoil in his mind; the whirling, tumultuous threads which all lead back to one topic: Mrs. Lovett. He doesn't understand why the Beadle would lie about the visit. Especially since it appeared she was _expecting _him; surely that meant that the Beadle had arranged the meeting…? What does it mean?

Toby shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts. He can't deal with this now. Once more he focuses everything he has into putting the finishing touches to his snowman, then takes a step back to admire his work. A few stones for buttons and facial features. Sticks for arms. It'll do.

"Toby?"

He turns to find Mrs. Lovett standing on the threshold of the pie shop, rubbing her arms against the cold.

"You comin' in now, love? 'T'is freezin' out 'ere, an' I've made you some soup an' run you a bath to warm ya right up."

"Yeah," he calls, brushing the snow from his hands onto his trousers and trudging back down the street to his home. Mrs. Lovett stands to the side as he reaches her, ruffling his hair affectionately as he passes.

"You've got a mighty fine snowman out there," she says, following him into the parlour. "Looks really artistic, it does. Now, why don't you get in the bath an' I'll get that soup bowled up for when you've finished, hmm? You need to get outta those wet clothes, dearie, before you catch your death."

Toby stares at her for a moment before pulling off the scarf around his neck. She smiles encouragingly before making her way to the kitchen to give him the privacy a growing boy deserves. Toby waits until she's disappeared before he finishes undressing, then slides into the water with a frown. Guilt overcomes him. For a moment, he'd been doubting her. Thought that perhaps there was more to her than met the eye, something darker lurking behind her kind eyes. But seeing her like that, fussing around him, dispelled any misgivings he'd been having. He's angry at himself for thinking that way; it was just the whole exchange this morning with the Judge and the police officer…

And the Beadle.

Toby wonders again why he's lying about visiting the pie shop. Just what is it he doesn't want the Judge knowing? What business had he had with Mrs. Lovett?

"Mum?"

"Yes, dear?" she calls from the kitchen. He can hear her humming as she goes about setting his dinner on a tray. No doubt she is smiling happily, eyes glazed and dreamy as she goes about her task. The desire to demand answers about the Beadle and Judge Turpin's visits leaves him at once. He doesn't want to end her content mood – something which will certainly happen if he brings it up. It can wait for another time.

"Nothin'."

* * *

Judge Turpin bids Hawthorne goodnight at the front of his home and enters the manor, his smile sliding off his face as soon as the door is closed.

How dare he try and take matters into his own hands and plan the steps to Todd's demise? The scheming for the truth is a job Turpin will only allow _himself_ to carry out.

He pauses outside Johanna's room on the way to the study. Quietly, so she does not hear him, he removes the picture hiding the peeping hole from the wall and peers into the gloom. There she is, silhouetted against the window; the moon's milky glow painting her skin a holy silver. She's as beautiful as ever.

_Soon we'll be married, _he promises, fingering the box he has taken to keeping on his person at all times. On Christmas Day, he will have a fiancé.

Carefully, he replaces the picture and continues towards his study. He lights the lamps and closes the door behind him, striding across the room to sit at his desk. A blank sheet of paper already sits waiting for him, and with a self-satisfied smirk, he dips the end of his quill into the pot of hungry ink. Droplets fall from its nib like blood; he waits until the flow stops before poising it over the pristine paper.

He will play the game his way. No one else's. Certainly not Hawthorne's.

Grimly, he begins to write.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Todd,_

_I realise now what a fool I made of myself last week due to my appalling behaviour. I have no excuses but this one; the Beadle is a most dear friend to me, and I am very concerned for his welfare. I do not know what has prompted such a good man to disappear, but I fear no good has come to him._

_If it is not at a great inconvenience to you, I plan to drop by Christmas Day for a shave – I need to be looking my best for my dear Johanna. Of course, I understand that it may be a burden at this time of year, but I fully intend to pay double the normal price as form of my sincerest apology. Send word if the timing is a problem._

_I am yours most truly,_

_Judge Turpin._

* * *

The letter sets his heart racing, his eyes dilating, his breathing ragged and shallow. It takes a moment for the words to sink in. His brain numbs blissfully. Only one thought registers: the Judge coming. Here. In two days.

In two days his revenge will be complete.

_I do not know what has prompted such a good man to disappear…_well, the Beadle was anything but _good_, Sweeney knows this for a fact. And his corrupt nature is the reason for his untimely 'disappearance'…_I plan to drop by Christmas Day…_even if it was an inconvenience, Todd wouldn't care; nothing will get in his way this time…_I need__ to be looking my best for my dear Johanna…_oh, she'll never see him at his best, Todd will make sure of that…

He crosses the room and throws himself into the barber chair, picking up the picture of his wife as he does so. He trails his fingers down the intricate pattern on the frame, opening the clasp gently.

The eyes of his beloved Lucy stare up at him, warm and honeyed. Johanna is clasped tenderly on her lap, the baby's mouth grinning toothlessly. Every time, this melts his icy heart. It's the only thing which can touch him in this new, cold life.

_Soon_, he promises, caressing his daughter's face. _Soon you'll be free._

What he'll do when this happens, he isn't sure. It's something he has yet to plan. Johanna will never know of his murders, but he _does_ want to meet her. She is his; his baby girl. Perhaps he'll be able to persuade Anthony to bring her here for a visit.

After that, he wants her out of this pit.

His musings are interrupted by the jingle of the bell above his door, and Mrs. Lovett enters, carrying a tray laden with food.

"Breakfast, love," she says.

He doesn't look up, continues staring at the glass separating him from his family. Nellie frowns sadly, placing the tray on the trunk near the door. She hates it when he acts like this.

"Love?" she moves towards him, tugging the frame from his hands. It comes away easily, and it's at this moment she notices the crumpled paper clutched in his fist.

"What's this?" she enquires inquisitively, prising it from his grasp. She scans it quickly, then brightens.

"Well, ain't this good news?" she exclaims, patting his arm. "'T'is only a couple of days away…you'll 'ave yer revenge 'fore ya know it!"

Todd merely sits silently, but she knows what he's seeing. She knows, in that instant, that it isn't her.

Feeling her heart crack a little bit more from yet another rejection, she backs slowly out of the room.

At times like these, it's best to leave him to brood alone.

* * *

_My Lord,_

_It would be an honour to receive your patronage again. It seems we have not got off to a very amicable start, and I can only apologise for my own involvement in that. Of course I can understand your position and what the situation must look like to you – however, I implore that you believe we had no involvement in this._

_Your visit Christmas Day would not be an inconvenience, but I cannot expect you to pay for my services. Allow me to give you the closest shave you'll ever know without a penny's charge._

_Yours truly,_

_Mr. Todd_

* * *

Judge Turpin's lip curls when he reads the response. The barber has a way with words, he'll admit that, but words cannot mask his true persona. There is an icy fury to the man which he does not like, one which cannot be thawed or disguised by a flattering speech and deft workmanship. No, there is something not quite right about Mr. Sweeney Todd, and Turpin resolves to get to the bottom of it. The Judge is positive the barber knows the whereabouts of the Beadle, gruesome fate or not. The meeting of Christmas Day will drag it out of him. He'll defeat the man so quickly that he'll wonder what has hit him.

By Christmas Night, Sweeney Todd will be in a cell. Waiting for Australia or death is the only question remaining.

* * *

He can feel it in the air, in the crackling tension which smothers the oxygen.

It is the day of reckoning. The day which will decide his fate.

He paces the room, unable to sleep; if he could, he knows he wouldn't.

Too much rides on this.

He slips the razor onto his side and goes to stand by the window, glowering down at the streets of London. There is barely a sound; no one is awake at this dead hour. Even if they were, it's Christmas Day; families will be crowding around Christmas trees, handing presents to children as their young faces glow with excitement. Scowling darkly, he turns away from the view and stalks to the mirror, regards himself.

A shock of jet hair tangles wildly around his deathly pale face, the white streak more deplorable than ever in the grey of the morning. Dark circles ring his black, expressionless eyes. His thin frame is gaunt.

He is haunted.

Tearing his gaze away, he crosses the room in two paces and wrenches open the door. His feet beat the familiar path down the wooden stairs to the front of Mrs. Lovett's shop.

He knows she will be up.

He pushes the door open with ease and pads silently into the parlour. Toby is still fast asleep on the couch, an empty bottle of gin resting on the floor beside him. Once again the lad has drunk himself into a stupor. It's doubtful he'll awaken anytime soon, even if it is Christmas. Todd's lip curls disdainfully as he takes in the sight, his hand twitching impulsively as he treads quietly passed him…for some unfathomable reason Mrs. Lovett is fond of the boy, so it won't do to upset her.

The kitchen is empty, he finds, when he peers around the door.

He knows where she is.

Carefully he returns to the parlour and from there moves towards the unmarked hatch in the hall. Casting a furtive glance over his shoulder (it won't do for the brat to find out too much), Sweeney disappears into the gloom.

The echoing sound of metal hitting stone reaches his ears as he descends into the bakehouse; the sound of perverse, tragic music.

It is the stench of decaying bodies which hits him first; recoiling slightly, he wrinkles his nose and steps inside. The heat is suffocating and overwhelming. Sweeney can already feel the sweat accumulating between his shoulder blades as he surveys the scene in front of him. Mrs. Lovett hacks viciously at the dead body which lies on the table (fop? Grocer? Lawyer? He's lost count of the many types of people he's killed), as though it has done her personal insult, collecting the bloodied pieces of flesh which fall away from the bones. Placing them carefully to one side, she continues attacking the corpse until she feels the eyes burning into her.

She turns to see Sweeney Todd leaning silently against the wall.

"'Appy Christmas, dearie," she smiles, dusting her gore slicked hands over the bloody table. "I'm just gettin' rid o' this body 'fore it goes off. 'S'no use then, is it? Better to 'ave these pies prepared for tomorrow, or there'll be no business…"

Mr. Todd grunts in reply, mumbling a similar Christmas wish without feeling, his eyes never leaving the body. Setting the cleaver down on the surface, she places the meat quickly into the grinder and leaves it there, sets the pastry to one side and then hurries towards the door. After peering carefully around it in order to make sure that Toby is not in sight, she scrutinises Mr. Todd's features, her fingers just shy of resting soothingly on his arm.

"It'll be alright, love," she says. "You've 'ad enough practice on unsuspectin' throats. Never failed before, 'ave ya?"

Slowly he shakes his head, gaze fixated on the dead man. In these moments Nellie can never understand what might be going through that mind of his. The darkness in his eyes intensifies, clouds with bloodlust and the thirst for revenge. She should fear him when he looks like this – brooding, menacing – but strangely, it only serves to make her love him more, this dark, bloodthirsty enigma. She loves him utterly. Completely. More than her own life.

"I won't fail," he mutters, tearing his eyes away. His low, growling voice sends a shiver of anticipation down her spine and she shudders despite the heat of the bakehouse. "I _can't_ fail."

"An' you won't dearie," she answers brightly. "We'll 'ave the place ready for 'im in a jiffy an' then you can 'ave your revenge."

The prospect is a delicious one, one which Sweeney has dreamt about so many times, even in the rare hours of sleep. Dreams of slicing open flesh, spilling guts, watching the lights leave the Judge's eyes. Dreams of avenging his wife and daughter, both lost to him forever.

He needs to prepare. The day of justice is here.

Spinning on his heel, he brushes past Mrs. Lovett and pulls open the door.

"I'll be in my shop," he growls over his shoulder.

"Well, alright love, but I'll be comin' to fetch ya in a bit – can't 'ave ya missin' the present openin', especially when I've got a gift for you too!"

Todd doesn't reply; she doubts he's even heard her.

Nellie sighs, rearranges the pies on the tray and returns to tending the body.

Yes, Mr. Todd is an enigma.

* * *

Toby rouses at seven o' clock to find his Mum treading quietly around the kitchen, setting cutlery on a tray along with a bowl of porridge which is still steaming gently.

"Merry Christmas, love!" she says cheerfully, adding a cup of tea to the tray.

He yawns a similar response, blinks blearily, then pads over to inspect the contents.

Mrs. Lovett bats his hand away gently. "'S'not for you, Toby. This is Mr. T's. Now, do us a favour, love, an' take it up for him while I get you somethin' to eat. Okay dear?"

"Alright," Toby says, managing to keep the trepidation out of his voice. He is rarely given the job of delivering food to Mr. Todd (Mrs. Lovett usually takes great pleasure in doing so) and it is something he does not relish. The task leaves him shaking; he dashes into the room as fast as he can then bolts out again as soon as he sits the tray down, with Mr. Todd's eyes following his every move. He is secretly glad he's rarely given the job. In all honesty, Toby feels much braver with the barber when his Mum is around, even when he despises the way the man looks at her, wishes he could be the one to be on the receiving end of those often hateful glances.

Today however, he will do it to help his Mum out. Although it is still early, barely the crack of dawn, Mrs. Lovett has obscene amounts of work to do before the day can truly begin: preparing the beef; cutting the vegetables; opening the presents. It's Christmas, but it doesn't mean she'll be resting.

Grabbing the tray securely, he opens the door expertly with his elbow and ascends the wooden steps to the tonsorial parlour. The sky is a grim grey, angry clouds blocking out any glimpse of the sun's birth. Little droplets of rain fall at intervals, splattering and breaking on the iron ground, chasing away the snow and transforming it into slush. There is no life on the street below; London is still dead; little families secluded and safe on this morning. Shivering in the callous wind which snaps at his heels with pernicious fangs, he enters Mr. Todd's shop.

It is no warmer in here.

Mr. Todd is in his customary place by the window, observing the lifeless street below. Quietly so not to disturb him, Toby places the tray on the side, timidly clearing his throat when he moves back to the entrance. Slowly the barber's eyes find the boy; he does not cease the rhythmic sharpening of his razors.

"That's porridge on the tray," Toby says, shifting nervously but keeping his voice steady. "Mrs. Lovett's finest yet, she reckons."

Mr. Todd does not respond, merely looks at him, something akin to the ghost of a smirk on the corners of his mouth. In his heart, Toby knows Mr. Todd won't eat the meal so devotedly prepared by Mrs. Lovett – Mr. Todd barely eats anything – but he still feels the need to state, "I reckon Mum'll be up in a bit t' collect yer tray sir, so make sure ya eat it 'fore she does. An' she also asked me t'ask you to come down when yer ready so we can open the presents." The boy frowns, not understanding the implications of this. Why should Mr. Todd dictate the terms? It's Mrs. Lovett's house, after all. He'd rather the morose man not be there when the gifts are being opened.

"Very well," Todd says, that odd smirk still playing around his mouth. "But tell her I need no…_distractions_ today."

"Yes, sir," the boy nods obediently, and noticing that the barber is losing interest in the conversation (he's turning back to the window, the stropping beginning again), he backs slowly out of the room.

* * *

An hour passes before Mrs. Lovett deems it appropriate to approach Mr. T's tonsorial parlour. Leaving Toby to wash the breakfast things (she suspects his bright enthusiasm has something to do with the thought of the presents), she mounts the stairs and bustles into the barber's room.

He's by the window. Again.

Nellie feels the customary stab of sorrow for this man who has lost everything, followed by the usual despair at the depth of his feelings for his silly nit of a wife. _Why _won't he see that she is dead and that Nellie is _here_, waiting for him with every fibre of her being? Why can't he bring himself to, if not love, at least _care_ for her? Shaking her head to disperse these ill-feelings, she reapplies her bright smile.

"You alright, love?" she says, picking up the tray. "You comin' down in a minute? Toby's really lookin' forward to openin' 'is gifts, an' I want you to be there when 'e does."

Todd glances at her, clearly annoyed that she is disturbing his wallowing.

_Lucy, kneeling on the rug, holding out a gift, angelic face radiating beauty, prising the box open with delicate fingers, gasping softly, wrapping warm arms around him, kissing him sweetly…_

With difficulty, he grits his teeth and banishes these thoughts. They aren't going to make the day any easier. He doesn't want to spend it with Mrs. Lovett and the boy, but, he reluctantly admits, nor does he wish to spend it dwelling on his last Christmas with Lucy. Doing that would drive him into a frenzied rage, and by the time the Judge arrives he'll be so far gone he'll be unable to stop himself from slicing through his neck before he's through the door. Todd needs to be calm before the act, ensuring he does not slip up and reveal his dark secret to the rest of London.

"Come on then, dear," Mrs. Lovett says softly from the doorway, oblivious to his inner turmoil, and with a resigned glare he crosses the room, holding the door open while she passes with his untouched breakfast, before following her down the staircase to her shop.

* * *

Toby is kneeling beside the Christmas tree that he had helped his Mum drag in and decorate when they enter the parlour. His eyes shine with barely suppressed impatience as he grins excitedly, fingers itching to delve among the neatly wrapped, winking gifts.

"Can we open 'em now, Mum?" he demands longingly.

Nellie chuckles, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Go ahead, son. Made you wait long enough as it is."

It's all the encouragement Toby needs to dig into the tantalising pile. The first present is round and hard; the label reads, _love Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd_. The barber won't have clamped eyes on it before, Toby knows; nevertheless he thanks him somewhat stiffly as he feels the baker's shrewd gaze trained on him. He unwraps it to find a beautifully decorated green ball, perfect for the game which he and his Fleet Street friends have just invented. He's more enthusiastic in thanking Mrs. Lovett, throwing his arms around her and kissing her cheek.

Nellie giggles. "Saw you eyein' it up when we went to market. Thought you might 'preciate it."

"Thank you," he repeats, and pulls out another present. He scrutinises it, running a hand over the flat surface.

"Might wanna take care 'andlin' that one, son," Nellie grins.

Even more mystified, Toby pries away a corner of the paper, peering suspiciously into the gap as though something nasty will crawl out.

It isn't nasty at all. It's a handsome pocket knife; handle set in a polished wood and engraved with his name. The blade is a dull metal, but it is nevertheless sharp, the point keen enough to pierce flesh.

"Never know when they might come in 'andy," Nellie shrugs. "Lads shouldn' be without one, so long as you're not gonna be wieldin' it on the streets."

Toby is too enthralled to answer, but she can tell he likes it from the expression on his face. He places it reverently to one side, then grabs the next parcel. Checking the tag (_Mr. Todd, love Mrs. Lovett and Toby _in an almost illegible scrawl), he passes it without a word to the barber. The man's brow knits together in confusion as he takes it, staring at it mutely.

"What is this?" he rasps finally.

Mrs. Lovett giggles delightedly. "Come now, Mr. T, weren't you listenin' earlier? I told ya you 'ad a gift to open."

Speechlessly, he holds it. Quite frankly, he's dumbfounded. Although he's well aware of her ridiculous fancy of him, it's never once crossed his mind that the baker might go out and _buy_ him something. He'd thought the present opening would consist of only Toby tearing into his gifts, perhaps Mrs. Lovett opening one from her ward.

Not this. Never this. It's terrifying, dragging up memories which have been dormant inside him, memories which haven't had the chance to see the light.

Until now. _Benjamin Barker, taking the gift from his shy wife, planting kisses on her perfect face as he thanks her over and over for the offering…_

It's too much like a family event. And that's something he's never experienced with Lucy and Johanna together at this time of year: an event that will never occur with both his yellow haired angels present at the same time. He certainly doesn't want it to happen with people who can never replace his family; not with this wild-haired, twisted baker and the scruffy street urchin.

"I can't do this," he states, backing away abruptly.

Hurt flashes across Mrs. Lovett's face as she stands, following him into the front of the shop.

"What do you mean?" she demands, catching his arm. "'T'is only a present, Mr. Todd!"

"I never wanted you to buy me anythin'!" he shouts back agitatedly. "You're making this impossible for me!"

"How so?" Nellie raises a sceptical eyebrow. "All I've done is asked you to spend the day with Toby an' me…I didn't think that was askin' too much, not with everythin' I do for _you_! But," her lip curls sardonically, "obviously I was bein' too optimistic there. I'll be leavin' you now." _With the ghost of your bloody Lucy._

She turns away and heads back into the parlour, ignoring Toby's questions. Sweeney stares after her for a moment, then drops his gaze to the parcel he's still holding in his hands. It's awkwardly wrapped and oddly light. He wonders what it could be.

She's right, he supposes reluctantly, she _does_ do a lot for him. Cooking, cleaning, washing, not to mention baking his customers into pies to destroy the evidence…and she's only asking for a day. Not a lifetime. Even if this day is bringing back painful memories for him, surely he can take them? He has, after all, been subjected to worse…

With a frustrated growl, he returns to the parlour.

Nellie pointedly avoids his eye as he lingers in the doorway, focusing instead on Toby as he unwraps the last of his gifts, a striking wooden chess set. His face lights up as he turns it deferentially in his hands.

"This must've cost a fortune, Mum!" he breathes, unclasping the box to run his fingers worshipfully over the smooth pieces. "Thank you!"

"Well, it's not like I can't afford to buy things, not with the business bein' so good," Nellie grins. "An' I'll teach you 'ow to play. 'T'll keep us occupied at night when we've finished our work, at least."

Toby nods, then withdraws a small package she hadn't previously noticed.

"What's this?" she asks as he pushes it into her hands shyly. There is no tag, but she knows who it's from. The poor dear can't write, but it could never be from anyone else. A lump swells in her throat as the boy perches tentatively on the seat next to her. Oh, bless him, taking the time to buy her something! Her limitless love for her ward whom is like a son only stretches.

With trembling fingers, she unwraps the box. A gasp escapes her throat. Nestled against the dark paper are the most beautiful earrings she's ever seen. The stones are small but impossibly dark, glinting with a life of their own when the light catches them.

"Thought they'd bring yer eyes out," Toby rubs the back of his neck self-consciously; she realises he's chewing his fingernails nervously.

"'Ow…'ow did you afford these?" she chokes at last, unable to tear her gaze away from the mesmerising jewels.

"They ain't new," the lad confesses. "I bought 'em from the pawnbroker's. Saw 'em ages ago, an' kept 'opin' they wouldn't get sold. Been savin' me tips since September just so I could afford 'em." He notices a tear sliding down her pale cheek, and frowns worriedly. "What's wrong, don't ya like 'em? I can always take 'em back-"

"Don't be daft," she cuts in, pulling him towards her and hugging him fiercely. "This is the best present I've ever 'ad! Ya never should've spent so much money on me – oh, but _thank you-_"

"'S'all right," Toby grins, relieved. "I'm just glad you like 'em!"

"I _love_ 'em; gonna wear 'em every day…"

Todd looks away from the exchange at this point, unable to watch a second longer. The pain it brings to think of another parallel life, of what it could be like for a father and a mother and a daughter, is unbearable.

Nellie notices Sweeney's gritted teeth and artfully pulls away from Toby, finally understanding what's causing the barber's discomfort.

"G'on an' check the meat for me, love. I'll be along in just a tick to 'elp ya."

Toby nods obediently, stacking his gifts carefully out of harm's way before he heads for the kitchen.

As soon as he's out of sight, Nellie turns to observe the barber with a sigh.

"'M sorry for snappin', love," she says, massaging her temples. "I know 'ow 'ard this is for you. Gimme that back, I should never 'ave given it ya…"

She eases the package out of his hands, gently laying it on the couch; he bites back the retort of her not having _any_ idea of how bad it is for him. As much as he would relish pinning her to the wall with a razor against her throat, he deduces it would do him no good in the long run. For one, the boy might stumble across the scene, and Todd would have to silence him to ensure he wouldn't run to the law, and this would certainly do him no favours with the baker. At any rate, she's a formidable opponent in her own right; he doubts she'd stand for him ruining her Christmas Day.

So he doesn't act on his impulse, just grunts instead. She seems satisfied with this, and after another moment, heeds the boy's exclaims of, "Mum, I reckon the vegetables can go in now!"

Waiting until she's no longer in sight, Sweeney creeps towards the discarded present, handling it suspiciously, as though it will turn on him. Half-following Mrs. Lovett's voice so he won't be caught unawares by her untimely return, he fingers the wrapping, prising the string away expertly. The paper falls away, crinkling on the floor, as he eyes the gift surreptitiously.

He needn't have worried.

It isn't something a woman crazy in love would have bought, and for this he is grateful. He isn't sure just _what_ he had been expecting to see, but it definitely wasn't this. It's a new strop. Leathery, shiny, flawless. He runs his finger down its length, seeking out any imperfections; there are none. He can vaguely recall making a passing comment about the state of his old strop upstairs; it has seen better days, and the constant sharpening of his friends has not helped matters. At the time, he was certain Mrs. Lovett wasn't paying attention to him (it was, after all, how Sweeney himself managed to get by); now it is clear that she had been. No doubt she'd been hanging onto every word he uttered, the rarity of his voice sending her into overdrive. Yes, he can see her in his mind, hands on her hips, frowning, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she inspected the gifts in front of her, seeking the perfect one. It's not the gesture he wants. He'd prefer it if she'd bought him nothing.

But it does not take someone familiar with finance to know it's an expensive gift. Growling a little under his breath, he slips the strop onto his holster. He doesn't want her to get the wrong idea, but there's no harm in using it, especially since his old one is almost in ruins.

Nellie hears his feet treading up to his room as she emerges from the kitchen. She sighs in frustration. Why does the man always insist on being so bloody awkward? Deciding she'll give him fifteen minutes before she drags him back down, she flops down onto the couch for a minute. Pauses.

The package is gone.

As she listens to the musical sound of Mr. Todd's pacing, Nellie has to smile. It would seem that even the demon barber can't resist the temptation of a present at Christmas.

* * *

Johanna stares morosely at the little birds in the cage as she continues with her sewing. It's almost finished now. She's had nothing better to do over these past few weeks. Judge Turpin had a lock put on the window just two weeks ago, and since then she's been unable to even open the window a fraction to let in a welcome breeze. She feels like she's suffocating. She hasn't even glimpsed Anthony these past weeks. Perhaps he's been deterred, scared away by her formidable guardian. Sighing softly, she places her stitching to one side and climbs out of bed, reaching for her clothes as she does so. Today is Christmas Day, and Turpin will be up soon to check on her. She'll be let out and then forced to open her presents in front of him. _Thank_ him. She supposes he doesn't treat her too badly – at least, that was until the disastrous confrontation with Anthony a couple of weeks prior. Since then he's regarded her with suspicion, although she's repeatedly denied any knowledge of the sailor boy's plans.

Her hope for escaped died with the appearance of the lock on her window.

A knock on her door interrupts her thoughts, and she calls, "come in," softly as she finishes dressing.

"Good morning, my dear," Turpin says. "I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he nods, then briskly turns on his heel. "Breakfast will be ready shortly. And instead of getting your gift this morning, I think it would be more appropriate for you to receive it this evening."

Johanna's pretty little brow furrows. "Sir?"

He runs a discreet hand over his stubble. He will never admit it to her, but the Beadle's words still ring clearly in his ears: _thus armed with a shaven face…she bows to your every will._

Oh, how she will succumb.

He can hardly wait. At last she'll be his forever more.

* * *

Anthony bursts into the shop at half-past eleven, bringing a flurry of slush in with him. Hearing the tinkling of the bell above the door, Nellie calls, "I'm in the back, love!"

The sailor follows the sound of her voice, inhaling the mouth-watering scent of the Christmas dinner which is being cooked in the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas," Mrs. Lovett states cheerfully as she glances around, spoon poised in mid-air. "'Ow are you today dearie?"

"Very well, thank you ma'am," Anthony replies, squeezing himself onto the chair at the tiny table, across from a frowning Mr. Todd. "Sir? You're well too?"

"As well as expected," Todd replies gruffly.

Anthony is surprised by the melancholy mood of the barber – it is, after all, Christmas – but pushes it to one side as Toby places a glass of wine in front of him. The beverage slops over the side a little, staining the cloth a bloody crimson. Mrs. Lovett only smiles at the lad, shaking her head at his clumsiness.

"Toby dear," she says, "go an' get a cloth to wipe it up."

"Okay," the boy answers, darting off to do as he's told. Nellie takes the opportunity to usher both the sailor and the barber into the front of the pie shop.

"You wait 'ere, loves," she says brightly. "Dinner will be served in a tick."

"Thank you, ma'am," Anthony smiles, but his untroubled expression falters when he turns back to Todd.

"What is it, lad?" Sweeney growls, resigning himself to a tedious conversation with the sailor. At times, Mr. Hope's incessant chattering is as bad as Mrs. Lovett's.

Anthony glances around to make sure that the room is still empty (he doesn't mind Mrs. Lovett listening in, but he doesn't think her ward should be subjected to too much at his young age), before saying gloomily, "it's Johanna, sir."

Todd's ears prick at this. "Judge Turpin's ward?"

Anthony nods miserably. "Yes," he says. "I've walked past her house every day, hoping for a glimpse of her. But the Judge, he keeps her under lock and key all hours! I've only seen her at her window once in these past weeks – he must be preventing her from reaching it somehow! She looked so unhappy when she was there – I thought I saw tears on her face…"

The blood pounds loudly in his head as Anthony's words sink in. Reflexively, his fingers find his soothing razor. The thought of that _vermin_ mistreating his daughter is enough to send him into a blind rage. _Keep calm_, Todd orders himself. _It won't do to let Anthony see you furious. The Judge will be here in a few hours. Take it out on him. Get the revenge you deserve._

So with an effort, he manages to keep his voice nonchalant. "Well, there's nothing we can do about that at the moment. From what you've told me about the girl, she seems to be strong. She'll pull through this until we can think of a way of freeing her."

"I suppose," Anthony sighs, taking a sip of his wine. "I just worry about her, that's all. She always seems so beautiful and fragile…it's a wonder how anyone would want to hurt someone as vulnerable as that…"

_How indeed_, Todd muses darkly, thoughts inevitably straying to Lucy. The torturous scene of her rape once again plays itself in his mind, and he has to grit his teeth to prevent himself from snarling. Fortunately, Nellie and Toby choose this moment to appear with plates laden with dinner, and the discussion is cut short.

"So, 'ow 'as work been for ya, dearie?" Nellie strikes up conversation easily, leaving Todd to his deeper thoughts. "We 'aven't seen ya in a while…I was 'alf thinkin' that you'd gone away again."

"Oh, no ma'am," Anthony replies, swallowing a mouthful of beef. "I'm not leaving London without Johanna. I've managed to procure work on the docks – it's not as exciting as sailing, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. It pays well enough for the rent."

"Well, don't ever be afraid to come 'round 'ere if you're in need of a bite to eat then," she says pleasantly. "Me pies are the best in London, an' I'll give you one on the 'ouse whenever you're in need o' one."

"Thank you, ma'am. It's much appreciated."

"Not at all, dear," she dismisses his gratitude with a wave of her gloved hand. "Can't 'ave you starvin', can I? Not when you've got…" her eyes slide briefly to Toby, who is stabbing a carrot, tongue poking between his teeth, "_other things_ you need to be focusin' on."

Anthony nods. "I just don't know what to do about it," he sighs broodingly. "I must have had a hundred ideas and notions to get her away, but none of them amount to anything after the initial thought. It's impossible!"

"Just wait it out," Todd rumbles surprisingly; there is a strange glint in his eyes. "You never know, the winds might begin to favour you."

"I suppose you're right," the sailor agrees reluctantly, "but I don't know how much longer I can stand this. It must be terrible for her."

"Who?" Toby asks curiously, but quickly drops his gaze upon noticing Mrs. Lovett's reproving stare. The three adults exchange glances, and the subject is silently closed.

Dinner is a pleasant affair for the group on the whole – although Todd's mind is elsewhere, counting down the minutes to the Judge's arrival. In mere hours it will be over. His revenge will be complete.

They retire to the parlour after lunch, Nellie and Toby quickly clearing away the remains of the roast before the boy begs her to teach him how to use his new chess set. She nods in agreement and shows him how to set the pieces out, where each one can move. Toby's face is screwed up as he soaks up every word she tells him; she aids him in the first few games against Anthony, succeeding in beating him every time.

Yes, Toby thinks happily, looking up at her as she grins beside him. This Christmas is the best he's ever experienced. Even Mr. Todd isn't acting as glum as usual (which is a surprise to the boy), though he's as silent as ever.

They may be dysfunctional, but they're still all the family he's ever known.

* * *

It's evening.

Turpin sits in his study, whiling away the time until he can pay Mr. Todd a visit about the Beadle's mysterious disappearance. The little box containing his dear Johanna's engagement ring sits open on the desk, the delicate stone glittering in the flickering candlelight. Oh, he can hardly wait until he has the pretty little angel for himself. She'll be a very satisfying wife, and he's sure she'll be very happy married to him. Well, _he_ will be at any rate. And Johanna will eventually learn to accept it, be content herself.

In a few hours, she'll be his officially.

But first he has business to attend to.

Slipping the box back into the drawer, he stands and checks his reflection in the mirror. A dusting of stubble decorates his cheeks, and he runs a hand subconsciously over it. The barber can sort that while he quizzes him. He needs to look his best for his Johanna, after all.

Grabbing his coat from the chair at the other end of the room, he blows out the candle and makes his way to the door. The sooner his business is complete, the sooner Johanna will be his.

On the way to the stairs, Turpin knocks on Johanna's door and peers around it.

"I'm going out for a while," he says with a charming smile. "But I won't be long. I have some business to attend to. When I return, you shall have your present."

She nods. "Goodbye, sir."

He leaves her then, striding down the corridor to the staircase. He descends quickly.

"Where are you going, sir?" one of the pretty maids asks as she dusts under assorted collection of expensive trinkets on a table. "D'ya need anythin' for when you return?"

"I don't know how long I'll be," he replies shortly. "And no one needs to know where I'm going. I'll be back in due course."

The maid bows her head, backing away at his abrupt tone, whilst the Judge steps smartly into the unforgiving night.

He's too arrogant to even contemplate the fact that he might not ever see his home again.

* * *

When the darkness begins to creep under the doorframe, smothering all light left, Nellie rises to light the candles. They splutter feebly in the intense blackness, making shadows dance across the three faces following her every move. Toby is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his new chess board, Anthony opposite him as his face contorts in concentration. Her eyes wander to meet Mr. Todd's; he jerks his head slightly as he indicates the front of the shop. Her nod is almost imperceptive; she waits until he stands too.

"You off then, love?" she says brightly, crossing the room to his side. Toby stares at them curiously as she pulls the barber out of the room, but is dragged reluctantly back into the chess game by Anthony.

Nellie and Sweeney silently tread the floorboards, stopping at the door. He pauses for a second, eyes finding hers, spilling with turbulent determination and resolve. His fingers find the ever-present razor.

"Good luck, dear," Nellie whispers, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cold cheek, then deciding against it. She settles for patting his arm soothingly, and he nods curtly in acceptance as he leaves.  
She waits there, watching his tense back ascend the wooden staircase to his shop, unable to prevent her heart from speeding up.

In an hour or so, all of this will be over. Perhaps, in time, he'll find the strength to move on.

She can always hope, she thinks, returning to the warmth of her parlour.

* * *

It is barely ten minutes later when Judge Turpin slowly enters the room. His features are set and unsmiling. Todd's heart is beating fast enough to burst. His usually steady hands are trembling slightly as he caresses his razor. This is it.

"Mr. Todd," Turpin inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Good day, I trust?"

"Very, Your Honour," Todd replies, a genuine, if slightly menacing, smile lighting his features. _And it's about to get much better._

The Judge casually removes his coat, throwing it carelessly at the chest in the corner of the room. He then unwinds his stock, brushing past Todd on the way to sit in the chair. Sweeney's razors tingle with anticipation. He hums to himself as he removes his favourite, holding it up to the light to inspect. It glitters. Reassuring. Predatory.

He then strolls over to the bureau, mixing the paste to lather onto the bastard's cheeks. Can't have him suspecting, after all.

The Judge settles back leisurely as Todd begins applying it, waiting until the barber has started scraping it off before he speaks.

"I haven't heard any news of the Beadle," he says, and thinks he feels Todd's steady rhythm falter for a fraction of a second.

"Is that so?" the barber grunts, injecting just the right amount of interest into his words. "Can't imagine where the fellow has gone, m'Lord."

"Hmm," Turpin says, then waits a few scrapes before adding, "I think I can."

"You can?" Todd's voice is impassive, but it does not fool the Judge – after all, hasn't he acted the same way for two decades? He recognises Todd's soul – there is an underlying darkness to it, a darkness that has been fed in the past rather than squashed. It is a soul Turpin himself possesses. He shifts subtly in the chair as Sweeney bares his teeth above him, intending to bring the razor slashing down on his throat –

"I think he's dead. By your doing."

The words make Todd pause over the jugular, the razor pressed just lightly against his skin.

"Well, I'm afraid you're mistaken, sir," he says stiffly, grip on his friend tightening as he angles the razor so it can penetrate the skin –

"Do you think I'm stupid?" the Judge hisses. "I know the truth!"

Todd grins fiendishly. "Oh, you don't know the half of it." He glances over to the door. He thinks he can reach it before Turpin, if the need arises. "Let me tell you a story."

"A story?" the Judge snorts. "I don't have time for childish games, Mr. Todd. I just want to assure you that you won't get away with your crimes."

"And what about yours, Judge Turpin?" Sweeney says quietly, and the man freezes.

"What do you mean?" he growls.

"This is where the story ties in," Todd sneers. "The story of a barber and his beautiful wife. A barber who was banished to Australia for a crime he did not commit, powerless to protect his wife while she was subjected to the horror of a brutal rape back in London. A woman who was so distraught and terrified that she ended her life by taking arsenic, her daughter then taken cruelly from her home to be raised by the very man who caused the suffering in the first place. Imagine the barber's fury upon learning these things."

Turpin's blood goes from freezing to boiling in a matter of seconds, despite the feeling of dread rising from his stomach. "I don't know how you know of such things, Mr. Todd," he growls, "but allow me to assure you that these are merely ridiculous notions."

"Oh, I don't think so," Todd croons softly, "they're true."

Turpin tries to stand at this point, but Todd has rounded the chair and pushed him back into it before anything can register. His teeth are bared like a wild animal's.

"Tell me," he hisses vehemently. "Do you remember a man of the name Benjamin Barker?"

Benjamin Barker…the name is a vague memory on the fringes of the Judge's mind. And then it hits him. Johanna's real father. Lucy Barker's husband.

The barber sent away on a false charge.

"What has he got to do with anything?" he spits.

"Everything," is Sweeney's calm reply. "Everything. What do you see when you look at me?"

A mass of tangled black hair with that distinguishing shock of white. Eyes of tourmaline, black and cold, boring into Turpin's very soul. Pale skin, so pale it has a deathly glow.

"Really look at me," he snarls.

And then it hits him. The past fifteen years melt away. The black softens to wavy brown locks. His eyes lighten to a warm chocolate brown. His skin becomes tanned from the gentle stroke of the sun.

There is no mistaking him.

"Benjamin Barker," Turpin growls, and his anger intensifies – _how had that weak, pathetic excuse for a man escaped such a Hell…?_

"_Benjamin Barker!"_ Todd screams, and the years of hardship and torture are apparent on his face as his features twist demonically; finally – _finally_ – the blade of his friend finds its way into the Judge's soft flesh, its destiny fulfilled at last…

A terrible gurgling issues from the Judge's throat as he inhales sharply, blood spilling from his mouth. Air whistles down his damaged windpipe as he chokes on his own life, blood seeping from the hole in the nape of his neck, staining his clothes, the chair, the barber…

Todd plunges the blade again and again into the soft pulp which is the Judge's neck, not caring that the blood spraying out of the flapping wound has covered his entire body, slick and warm. The tortured gurgling which had issued from the Judge moments before has stopped, the last of his lifeblood drained away.

He is dead, but the barber still continues to howl demonically, slicing vengefully away until the corpse's face cannot be recognised.

Fifteen year's worth of pain.

Fifteen year's worth of driving himself mad, knowing nothing of the Fate of his wife and daughter.

Fifteen years of hell.

And now it is over.

Slowly the frenzied stabbings slow, cease; the dark energy which filled his body moments ago ebbing away. He is standing alone in the room, covered in the blood of a demon. He can smell the metallic stench, taste it in his mouth. It clings to his clothes, his skin.

It will not leave him.

The razor drops from his limp fingers, clattering to the floor to sleep amongst the red. Slowly, Todd raises his foot to stamp on the pedal, glaring hard at the dead Judge.

"I'll see you in Hell, you bastard," he hisses, and with that watches the Judge fall through the air to the belly of the Devil. The satisfying _clunk_ of Turpin's head on the concrete floor symbolises the end of Sweeney's quest for vengeance.

His knees give out from under him.

And then he begins to laugh.

* * *

The odd thumping above their heads finally stops, the demented howling fading away. Nellie breathes a sigh of relief as she sets down her glass of gin, finally able to relax again as she puts down the items she'd been banging noisily against the cupboards. Anthony and Toby are still engrossed in their game of chess; it seems that they have not heard the sounds above. Good thing to, or else Mrs. Lovett would have a hell of a lot of explaining to. She waits a few beats more to make entirely certain the barber is done, then rises to her feet.

"Well," she says casually. "I'm just gonna pop in on Mr. T for a tick. You'll be alright a minute?"

Anthony murmurs something akin to a reply, moving his bishop as he does so; but then his head jerks up in alarm as the chilling laughter slides through the floorboards. Toby's eyes widen as they meet Mrs. Lovett's. She is frozen to the spot.

It's Mr. Todd. _Laughing_. And not a pleasant sound either; a dark, nerve-jangling noise, cold enough to freeze blood.

"I think it's best if you go now," she says to Anthony shakily. "Toby, bed. Now."

Anthony struggles to his feet, placing his empty glass on the side, glancing at the ceiling nervously. "Thank you for a lovely day, ma'am. I'll be seeing you around soon, I hope."

She kisses his cheek as he comes over to take her hand, and with one last worried glance upwards, Anthony hurries through to the front of the pie shop, leaving the tinkling bell in his wake.

Toby frowns at her as she starts towards the stairs. "Y'ain't goin' up there, are ya!"

"Course I am," she tells him exasperatedly. "Now, off to bed with you. 'S been a long day."

"Mum, 'e sounds like 'e's lost it!" the boy retorts loudly, over Mr. Todd's chuckles. "What if 'e does somethin' to ya?"

"Nonsense, dear," she dismisses. "I doubt very much 'e's in a state to do anythin'. Probably drank 'imself into a stupor, silly man. Now, I want you to be asleep when I come back down, so g'on an' get ready."

Toby waits fretfully until she's mounted the stairs to the tonsorial parlour before slowly sliding on the little couch, frowning deeply into the flames as he curls up on his side. Just what is wrong with the barber? Toby thought nothing was scarier than the man when he was angry, but he's been proven spectacularly wrong. The demon's laughter is more terrifying.

He wonders what has happened to provoke such a reaction from the dark man.

* * *

Shivers race down Nellie's spine as she loiters outside Mr. Todd's shop, her hand resting on the knob. The dark, rich tone of the barber's laughter resonates wildly; she peers through the glass to see him slumped over by the barber's chair. Moonlight filters in, illuminating the gloom and the copious amounts of blood, smothering both the floor and Todd; he looks every bit the part a demon from the burning pits of the underworld.

With a sigh to gather her courage (even she is wary of him when he's like this), she enters the tonsorial parlour.

He does not turn his head when the door creaks open, but she knows he's aware of her arrival from the way his back tenses. Slowly, she crosses the room, heedless of her dress sliding over the blood. She pauses a second by his side, before dropping to her knees. The thick, sticky substance immediately begins to cling to her skin as she cautiously reaches out a hand to her barber, laying it gently on his shoulder.

"Love?" she whispers.

The chuckles cease at once, leaving a terrible silence in their wake. Nellie shifts on the hard floor, carefully surveying her surroundings. Christ, so much blood. The poor bugger suffered, so it seems.

"I did it, pet," Todd's voice is raspy and exhilarated as he slowly turns his head to her, eyes shining out of a red mask. _"I did it."_

"That's right," Nellie breathes. "You did it. It's over, Mr. T."

It's true. His revenge is complete. But will it sate his wrath? The baker doesn't know. What little humanity left in Sweeney Todd upon his return to London was eradicated when he learned of his wife's fate. But can the ghosts finally be laid to rest? Can he find the resolve to move on?

Sighing softly, Mrs. Lovett pulls a handkerchief from her bodice, wiping at the crimson rivers on his face. They tell the story of his suffering. But perhaps…perhaps a new story is ready to be told. The scarlet mess is beginning to congeal on his features, and she works on it gently, clearing his skin a little at a time. He remains still while she works, eyes unfocused and faraway, a wolfish smile curving his mouth upwards; she knows he is reliving the moment when the Judge ceased to be.

They stay like that for some time, lost in their own little world, two demons escaped from Hell, bathing in their jubilation, while the furnace roars beneath them.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, I honestly don't know how I managed to get the second part of _Wrath_ so bloody long, but it happened somehow. Um…oops? My apologies for the terrible time it took to actually get this damned thing completed, but that's it. Wrath is now complete. The next update shouldn't be very long in the pipeline as it is only very short (only about as long as _Red_).

If there are any spelling or grammatical errors, please point them out and I will amend them at once.

I hope I did alright with characters like Turpin (who is difficult to write), Johanna and Anthony (who I'm just not interested in). Let me know what you think, and a huge thanks to all reviewers thus far! You make my day! :)


	6. The Colour Green

**A/N:** So, here's the next part. Sorry it's taken so long, and that it's so short, but it was short for a purpose. I'm already working on the next chapter, and I can more or less guarentee it's going to be another long one again. If there are any mistakes, point them out and I shall amend them at once.

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1.

* * *

_The Colour Green_

_It is a mystery why people call green the neutral colour. Neutral implies unfeeling, uncaring. Neutral is the absence of jealousy. Of envy._

_Green is not such an innocent colour._

_Imagine this now. Imagine you're sat in a room. You're on your own. No one for company. No one to care enough. Solitude has been your companion for so long; its presence nips your skin like a lover, even as its hands strangle the life from your veins. You glance out of the window. There's nothing better to do._

_You can see fingers laced gently, hands protecting each other from the harsh unknown of a barren land, where nothing but black and white exists; a land you are in alone. There is no joy left for you here._

_Smiles illuminate faces, bathing features in a beautiful, innocent glow which makes your heart bleed with longing, just to be the one out there. If only, if only, if only._

_Eyes search another's shyly, finding solace and shelter in the loving gaze, sure nothing will ever tear them apart. It's not you there. It will never be you._

_You hear voices, soft and sweet, murmuring muffled, tender words into ears. The joy radiating from them, from their perfect life, is both mocking and entrancing to watch. Then it is too much. You have to look away. You're not pure enough to witness such a naïve act._

_Envy._

_It penetrates your very soul, an iron fist around your heart, squeezing the life from your lungs. It knots your stomach, bringing you the most torturous pain, bringing tears to your eyes which fall silently in the middle of the night._

_It burns your throat like bile, choking you with dreams of What Could Be._

_And now, years later, in a landscape that is more miserable than it was before, your envy is stronger than any wrath could be, and while wrath can be sated with the calming presence of RED, there is nothing to dissipate your yearning. Because you weren't there first. And that will always haunt you. Second place. Second choice. Second best._

_And that's what hurts the most._

_God, it destroys you. Every day you die a little more inside, even though it's so far in the past now; you'll never forget._

_Never forget, never forgive, swish, slash, swish._


	7. Envy, Part I

**A/N:** First of all, I must apologise for the extremely long wait between this chapter and the last; more than five months apparently. :S I hang my head in shame! A combination of schoolwork, exams and general lack of inspiration has prevented me posting this earlier, but at least it's up now. :) The hard work for my exams really did pay off though, and I'm just so chuffed with my results. :)I'm on holiday for a week as of later today, so I won't have any Internet connection for the entire time. It will just about kill me, but at least I'll (hopefully) have some reviews to look forward to reading. :) I will respond to them as soon as I return. Goodbye until then! :D (Oh, and sorry for its awful length!) The title won't centre, which is really hacking me off.

There is some Benjamin/Nellie stuff at the beginning of this chapter. It seems pointless and possibly OOC now, but it will serve a purpose in future chapters. Also, I don't know how claiming inheritance worked back in those days, whether people needed to be present at the reading of the will and the like, nor am I sure about how police investigations were conducted. Therefore please afford me my poetic license, or if anyone does know, don't hesitate to tell me. ;)

**Lillith **– Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. :) Sorry it took so long to get the next part up, but here it is! Thanks for reviewing! :D

**Lexicon** – Haha, we're late bloomers together then. :D Thanks for reviewing! :D

If there are any errors, grammatical or spelling, please point them out so I can amend them.

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1.

* * *

_6. Sin Two: Envy_

_December 1846_

"_Nothing sharpens sight like envy"_ – Thomas Fuller

* * *

With a furious scowl, Charles Hawthorne stands with his arms crossed, glaring down at the nervous young officer who is crouched in front of the deceased form of the late Judge Turpin. The officer looks queasy, hands trembling as he feels around the cold corpse for more signs of damage, resolutely avoiding the Judge's frozen eyes and gaping neck.

Hawthorne is seething. Turpin had been missing for almost a week before the snow had melted away and his body was discovered – the stench of decaying flesh had finally become too pronounced for the tavern's owner to ignore anymore, and he'd snooped around the nearby alley, hollering for the police the instant he'd found the Judge.

That bloody arrogant man. Hawthorne had told him the only way of getting to the bottom of the Beadle's disappearance, and that had been to somehow enter the bakehouse unbeknownst to the occupants of the shop, perhaps while Hawthorne himself was _distracting_ the pie maker, searching for any incriminating evidence which would suggest that the Beadle had been there. After all, why else would he have vanished? Health Regulations had been his forte; it was his duty to inspect properties that could be deemed as a hazard to public welfare. Hawthorne had not been fond of the man, but what if he'd found something unsavoury, and had been silenced before he'd managed to report it?

Hawthorne is not stupid by any stretch. He has destroyed the lives of many guilty people with a clever cunning back in Leeds. He is certain that it would've taken mere weeks to crack the mystery of the Beadle's sudden departure. Less, perhaps.

But the Judge had taken matters into his own hands, and Hawthorne feels like he has been thwarted. He does not like that.

So he'll get to the bottom of this. Alone.

It just takes a more subtle approach.

"Um…sir?"

At the sound of the young officer's voice, Hawthorne is shaken out of his ruminations. "Yes,

Mr. Brook, what is it?"

Mr. Brook stands shakily, face paler than ever before. He is staring, transfixed, at a little box nestled snugly in the palm of his hand.

"What's that you've found?" Hawthorne asks at once, sweeping his hat back onto his head. Wordlessly, Mr. Brook opens the box's catch and lifts it. He gasps, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

"What is it, man?" Hawthorne barks, growing more agitated as the young officer continues to stare.

Speechlessly, he offers his superior the box.

Nestled amongst the velvet is a beautifully elaborate ring.

An engagement ring, no less.

* * *

Early morning finds Mrs. Lovett in the bakehouse, savagely hacking away at the limbs of a dead customer. Even though his revenge is complete, Sweeney Todd is still disposing of his clients, blind to everything. The night the Judge had died _(was it really only a week ago?)_, Nellie had stayed by the barber's side for almost an hour, sitting with him in her arms, his eyes wide and euphoric. The feelings inside her chest had been indescribable; joy, fear and relief warring for attention within her. She'd settled for joy in the end, allowing herself just to _be_, to savour the feel of the man she loved in her embrace while it lasted.

She'd waited until he finally had a hold of his senses again before suggesting they dispose of the body.

"Can't 'ave 'im goin' stiff," she'd told him. "An' I reckon it'll be safer just dumpin' 'is body somewhere. Can't 'ave the police comin' 'round 'ere demandin' to see the bake'ouse again, can we? The Judge already suspected us over the Beadle's disappearance. We'd be done for."

Todd had grunted reluctantly in agreement, and heaved himself to his feet – she was sure he was disappointed that he wouldn't be able to witness the first Judge pie being served to the ravenous world; the many hungry citizens tucking into the remains of a monster.

Instead of that, they'd made the perilous journey through the sewers to the docks, struggling with the Judge's form between them, swearing every time they'd crashed into preying objects in their way. Protected with the cloak of darkness, they'd dumped his body as far away from the pie shop as possible, next to a tavern. Any violent drunk passing by could have done it.

They'd returned the way they'd come, slipping back into the parlour (thankfully, Toby was still fast asleep), then creeping up the stairs to Sweeney's shop. They'd silently united to clean the drying blood from the floorboards.

It was the early hours of the morning before she'd collapsed, exhausted, into bed. Thus ended their rather strange Christmas Day. Nellie had hoped that once his revenge was complete, he would give up the killings, and they could have a life together.

_Like I once dreamed._

But alas, it hadn't happened like that. A mere two days after the incident, with the shop reopened, Nellie had descended the cold stairs to the bakehouse to find three men slumped like ragdolls over the flagstones, their brains splashed across the heartless concrete, their throats wide and gaping, shock, horror and fear forever frozen on their faces.

She'd sighed, and set to dismembering them at once.

And, hacking up those bodies, her dreams of a life with him died a little more.

She sighs now, pausing in the middle of slicing the skin to push damp hair away from her forehead.

* * *

_Nellie Brown stood behind the counter in her mother's pie shop, drumming her fingers listlessly on the wooden surface, gazing unseeingly out of the front window. There was a tray of pies warming in the oven, but she doubted that she would be using them. It was very rare that their little pie shop welcomed a customer. Since her father's death two years ago, her mother's little business had gone steadily downhill until they were barely making enough money to make ends' meet. With two younger children to feed as well as her eldest daughter, Nellie had been taken aside by her mother and told sadly that she must try to find a husband soon because she could not afford to keep her any longer. Nellie had only bowed her head and agreed. She'd seen more than her fair share of poverty in her lifetime. At twenty, she was lucky that her mother had been able to keep her as long as she had. With marriage, Nellie would no longer need to rely on her mother. And, if she managed to procure a little job in the day, she would be able to send some of her earnings back home for her mother to use._

_At that moment the bell rang, breaking Nellie's painful ruminations, and with a ready smile plastered onto her face, she turned to greet the rare customer._

_And froze. Her heart sped up painfully, drumming violently in her chest. Her mouth was dry; her tongue did nothing to moisten her lips._

_The man who had just entered was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Lustrous chocolate locks fell across his forehead as he pushed them impatiently away. His dark brown eyes sparkled as he inspected the place, evidently searching for the person in charge. His cheeks were flushed a pale pink from the cold, and he moved towards her with the air of a gentle, kind man; he oozed trustworthiness. Nellie couldn't stop the blood rushing to her neck. Quickly busying herself with checking the pies in the oven, she determinedly avoided the fellow's eye contact._

_"Good day, ma'am," he said as he stopped in front of her. "I was wondering if you could tell me where Fleet Street is? I'm looking for a Mr. Lovett's property."_

_His voice was deep and rich, and if it was possible Nellie's heart beat faster still._

_"O' course…" she cleared her throat in a vain attempt to shift the restricting lump in her throat and stop her voice jumping an octave at the same time, "it's just down the way, love. Go to the end o' this street an' turn right. Carry straight on an' it's your first left after that; ya can't miss it."_

_The man ducked his head boyishly, smiling as he moved back towards the door. "Thank you, ma'am. And would you be so kind as to keep a pie ready for me? I would very much like to try one when I have been to see Mr. Lovett. I'll be back soon."_

_"Take…take as long as ya like, dear," Nellie said breathlessly, hurriedly turning away to pour herself a glass of gin as he left._

_What was it about the man that had caused such a reaction? It was something she'd never experienced before in her life; she shifted uncomfortably as she refilled her glass, acutely aware of the liquid heat pooling between her legs. What was wrong with her? There was nothing particularly special about him. True, he was exceedingly good looking, with a seemingly charming personality too – but that was it._

_Well, it didn't matter. She'd never seen him in the area before, and doubted she would again; he obviously wasn't from the less savoury end of London, with his polished accent and neat clothes. That was a relief, she supposed; in any case it would solve any…_problems_…which might have arisen._

_She cast her thoughts to one side, throwing herself into making more pies despite already having more than enough, giving herself time to regain control of her errant senses._

_Fifteen minutes later, the man appeared again, a huge grin across his features. Her mother still had not surfaced from the back where she was taking care of Nellie's sick brothers, and realising with a thrill of something akin to nerves that she was alone with this man, she knew she would have to make conversation, if only to keep up her appearance of a carefree, young woman._

_"Mr. Lovett's pleased you, then?" she said, dusting her hands free of flour, trying to avoid eye contact as he came to a stop in front of the counter._

_"Yes, ma'am," the man stated, reaching out for the pie gratefully as she pushed it towards him on a plate. He bit into it. "May I ask for your name?"_

"_Yes," Nellie said. "I'm Eleanor Brown." Hurriedly, she continued, "don't feel you 'ave to call me Miss Brown though. It's so formal, ain't it? Jus' call me Nellie, everyone does."_

_"Nellie…" the man said softly, and the sound of her name on his lips almost made her weak at the knees. "Well, I suppose I ought to introduce myself too. My name's Benjamin Barker."_

"_So, what brings you 'ere, Mr. Barker?" smiled Nellie. "Not seen you around 'ere before."_

"_Oh, please, call me Benjamin. I'm a barber; I've been looking for my own lodgings for a while now. Mr. __Lovett was kind enough to offer me the room above his living quarters. He's allowing me to fashion it into a tonsorial parlour. I've just paid the first three months' rent now. I'll probably be popping in here for a few pies in the future."_

_Oh, dear God. It would appear she'd be seeing a lot more of him than she'd first thought, then. Perhaps it wasn't such a good thing that she'd told him to call her Nellie. It made it more personal. Dangerous. She wasn't sure how she felt about the prospect._

"_That'll be nice for you, then," Nellie mused, trying desperately to ignore the heat growing in her face. "That's right kind of Mr. Lovett, that is."_

_Mr. Barker was staring at her hard, eyes boring into hers. The expression in his was unreadable. She could practically feel the warmth radiating from his body as he stood opposite her, the pie counter the only thing separating them. She fancied that she could feel his soft breath on her face. At last he snapped his eyes back up, backing away slowly, and Nellie released the breath she didn't know she'd been holding._

_"I really should be going," he mumbled softly. "I've got to get my stuff…you know, move in."_

_"O'…o' course, love," Nellie agreed distractedly, running a hand through her wild curls. "I shouldn't be keepin' ya…Lord, me Mum's always tellin' me 'ow I talk fer England…I'm sorry, dear."_

_"Don't be sorry," Mr. Barker murmured abashedly. "I like the sound of your voice." And with that, he ducked quickly out of the shop, leaving the merry jingling of the bell and a confused, albeit flattered, Nellie in his wake._

_

* * *

_

And that was how she'd met Benjamin Barker, all those years ago now. Nellie sighs at the memory. She hasn't thought about that particular day in so long – it hurts her to think back to how they once were, before Lucy and before Albert. Carefree, almost. Nellie had not stopped her search for a husband during her time of knowing Mr. Barker, but she'd been finding it increasingly difficult to find one suitable for her. None of them seemed to compare with how she'd begun to think married life would be with Benjamin. In her mind, the only hands that should ever touch here were Mr. Barker's. No one else's, just his.

Like they had that day five months later.

* * *

_Nellie glanced up from rolling the dough in front of her to find Benjamin entering the shop._

_"Mornin', Mr. Barker," she smiled, setting the rolling pin to one side as she made her way around the counter. "How are you on this fine day?"_

_"I'm fine, Miss Brown," he replied, grinning. "Is your mother around?"_

_Nellie shook her head. "No, she's gone to market this mornin' – we're all outta flour so she's left me in charge o' the shop. Me brothers 'ave gone with 'er."_

_Benjamin took a few coins from his pocket. "Then I don't suppose you've got any pies, have you? I'm starving. Oh, and keep the change. Call it your tip." He winked at her._

_"Bless ya, dearie," Nellie said. "Thank you. 'Ang on while I get you one. They've just come outta the oven, so they're nice an' 'ot." _

_She bustled around the shop, wiping her hands clean onto her dress. After retrieving a plate she proceeded to place one of the fresh meat pies on it, sliding it onto the counter in front of him along with a glass of gin. He took it with a smile._

_She expected Benjamin to leave after he'd eaten, smiling and bidding her goodbye until he came by again the next day for a pie, a tumbler of gin, and her company._

_But he didn't. He just continued to stare at he long after he'd finished, mouth partially open as he drew in a shaky breath. His eyes never wavered from her face. Nellie could feel herself falling into those dark pits of his, even as the forbidden thrills jolted down her spine. Heat pooled between her legs; in a desperate attempt to dispel the butterflies which were beating wildly in her stomach, she said loudly, "well, I best be gettin' on, Mr. Barker…me work is never done, I tell ya…"_

_Benjamin made no move to leave, instead stepping forward to trap her against the counter._

_"Nellie," he said softly. "Eleanor."_

_Nellie wasn't sure which one initiated the next move. Did it really matter? Not in hindsight. That one word – the sound of her full name on his lips – was all it took for her to lose her senses._

_His mouth was soft and yielding, his arms on either side of the work top, pinning her gently to the counter. Nellie whimpered slightly as the kiss deepened, her hands fisting in his soft brown locks. Benjamin pulled away enough to murmur her name again, planting chaste kisses along her jaw, her cheeks, her neck._

_They'd been dancing around this for weeks. He'd been in for a pie every day for the past month, sitting at a table and watching her every move. They'd flirted quietly whenever she passed; his hand would linger over hers a second longer than was appropriate when she came to collect his dishes while her mother worked in the background, oblivious. Their eyes would lock, gazes becoming darker with desire every time they did so._

_Yes, the storm had been brewing for some time._

_Now it was about to erupt._

_Benjamin slowly moved his hands down the curves of her body, leisurely bunching the skirt of her dress when he came to it, fingers drifting along the soft flesh of her thighs through her bloomers._

_With a jolt, Nellie's senses returned to her._

_"Benjamin," she hissed, pulling away with an effort. "We can't do this! We're not married!" Oh, God, how her heart ached._

_Benjamin looked up. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them before; their intensity took her breath away. There was something flickering behind them, almost invisible…danger. That was what it was. She'd never seen it before in dear, sweet Benjamin Barker. It suited him, somehow. Made him all the more appealing, mysterious…she almost moaned at the thought._

_It pushed away any doubts she might have had._

_Benjamin's mouth crashed back onto hers forcefully; she could do nothing but kiss him back fiercely. His hands were resuming their place under her voluminous skirts, wrestling with her undergarments impatiently._

_"Wait, love." Nellie managed to squeak as his mouth left hers to nip at her throat._

_"What?" he demanded huskily, voice trembling with lust. "What is it?"_

_Nellie's eyes darted nervously to the wide windows. The whole world would be able to see them here. Noses, pressed against the window, viewing the activities inside with disgust._

_"Not 'ere," she muttered. "Too visible."_

_"Where then?" Benjamin panted, nuzzling against her neck. "I can barely hold on here, my pet." The endearment set her heart racing with a renewed vigour._

_Nellie glanced around wildly, before she cast her gaze to the darkened back. There was nothing else for it._

_"Follow me," she commanded breathlessly, and Benjamin could do nothing but obey. She pulled him through the parlour, only one destination in mind._

_Her bedroom._

_

* * *

_

_An hour or so later Benjamin collapsed on top of her, sweaty and sated. Nellie's scent was intoxicating; he dipped his head into her hair and breathed deeply. Nellie's chest heaved with exertion as she tugged his hair until his lips met hers again. Benjamin ran his hands down her soft curves once more before rolling off of her, lying on his back beside her. The sheets were tangled around them, damp with their sweat and the products of their lust._

_"Well," he sighed, unable to stop the grin from cracking his face in two._

_"Well," Nellie echoed, and that was all she managed._

_"Can it be?" Benjamin laughed, his hand drifting to her tangled locks. "Nellie Brown, lost for words?"_

_"Very funny," Nellie giggled, whacking him amiably on the chest before snuggling up to his side. She could feel her eyes drifting shut as she basked in the heavenly afterglow with the man who she'd grown so very fond of over the last few months. She supposed this was the part where she should feel shame beyond measure (after all, she'd just allowed a man who wasn't her husband to take her virginity – did that make her as bad as a whore?) but she couldn't bring herself to care. God, that had been better than anything she'd ever dreamed of. She'd expected her first time to hurt a great deal, but Benjamin had been very gentle with her, holding still inside her until she'd adjusted to his intrusion, keeping a slow pace and managing to bring her to her very first climax with no problems at all. Who would've guessed Benjamin Barker would be such a thoughtful and incredible lover?_

_Nellie was certain the shame was not going to come. She'd never been one to take propriety seriously, and after all, most men had liaisons with women before their wedding night, so why shouldn't she take the pleasure offered to her by the beautiful barber? It wasn't like any harm could come to her; Benjamin had been very careful to pull out of her before he reached his own end, splashing his seed over her covers but effectively making sure that she would not fall with child, thus ruining her honour entirely._

_She was just caught in the heavenly place between repose and waking when she heard it. The tell-tale creak of the door, followed by the merry tingling bell at the pie shop entrance. Horror flooded her body as she jerked upright at once._

_"Shit!" she breathed, flying frantically from the bed. She fumbled wildly with the dress she'd abandoned on the floor, pulling the strings of her corset tight as she changed as quickly as she could._

_"Nell?" she could hear her mother calling cheerfully as her light tread sounded through the pie shop. "Where are ya 'idin', my girl? Why aren't you tendin' the shop?" The footsteps came closer, masked slightly by her brothers' raucous shouting as they put the groceries away._

_"Benjamin!" she hissed, panicking; Benjamin shifted groggily._

_"What is it?" he muttered blearily._

_"It's Mum!" she whispered desperately, checking her reflection quickly in the mirror. "Bloody well get up an' get dressed! She can't know what 'appened!"_

_Quick as a flash he was out of bed, tugging on his trousers frantically._

_"Be out 'ere in two minutes," she hissed before slipping from the room, fussing her hair into place and hoping she didn't look as flustered as she felt on the inside._

_Luckily her mother was still in the pie shop when she appeared through the door._

_"There you are!" she grinned, ruffling her hair affectionately as she walked up to her. "Where've you been?"_

_"In the back," she supplied, kissing her cheek. "Mr. Barker needed some change an' I was just gettin' 'im some."_

_"Oh, right," Mrs. Brown's eyes flickered uncertainly for a moment before her smile brightened again, wrapping her arms around her daughter's waist and dropping a motherly kiss into her messy locks. Benjamin chose that moment to enter, miraculously dressed._

_"Afternoon, Mrs. Brown," he said pleasantly, making sure to stand a suitable distance from Nellie. "I was just leaving now. I've held Miss Brown up for long enough, I think."_

_The return to formal names showed Nellie that their secret was still safe. Her mother bid Benjamin goodbye as he left the pie shop, a smile on his free, young face. When her mum had gone over to the cupboard to retrieve a glass for a drink, Nellie slipped back into her room. The bed sheets were pulled neatly to the top, exactly as they'd been found. Nothing to give them away._

_That night, as she lay in her bed alone, in the sheets of Benjamin's dried release, she dragged the covers up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She could smell the faint odour of sweat mingled with the unmistakeable scent of Benjamin's cologne. It was a heady combination._

_She slept, reliving that hour of passion in her mind._

_

* * *

_

She'd thought that shame would not come to her, but it had. Overwhelming waves of it, in fact, stemming directly from the way she'd so easily given up her virginity. In the days following their joining, Benjamin had avoided the pie shop at all costs, and Nellie had not gone out of her way to amend things either.

In fact, if it hadn't been for her mother, Nellie is sure that their one time coupling would have stayed that way. But, alas, once the game is started, it is impossible to end…

* * *

_Benjamin avoided the shop resolutely for a few days, grappling, she was sure, with the same guilt which overwhelmed her every time she thought back to what they had done. True, she had not done something as terrible as what Mrs. Wilkins was doing down the way with the fishmonger, but she still felt a twist of sickness every time she thought of the lies that she would have to weave for the man she chose for her husband._

_And she also doubted Mr. Barker had meant to compromise her honour. Mother, bless her, was still oblivious to the whole thing, which she was thankful for, although she had seemed to notice how the young barber and she were avoiding each other._

_"The lad never used to be anywhere else!" she exclaimed for the fifth time in as many days, and Nellie had to suppress the urge to growl. "'Ave the two of you fallen out or somethin'?"_

_"An' if we 'ave?" she snapped bad-temperedly, slamming a stack of clean plates onto the counter._

_Mrs. Brown chuckled good-naturedly, standing to wrap her arms around the petite redhead.. "Come on, Nell, don't be like that. Every time I've seen 'im pass by, the poor boy 'as been looking quite miserable. I'm sure that whatever problems you two 'ave been 'avin' can be resolved."_

_Nellie stiffened against her, guilt once more washing through her entire being like a stormy sea. "I think it'd be best if we left it."_

_"Nonsense," Mrs. Brown placed a chaste kiss on her daughter's cheek. "Besides, we don't want 'im to stop comin' 'ere. We can't afford to lose 'is custom. Please, Nell, just talk to 'im. We can't open shop because I 'ave some meat to grind down in the back. Just…sort it out now, while I'm getting the meat for you."_

_She pulled out of her arms, utterly defeated. "I still don't think –"_

_"Nell," she interrupted, eyebrow raised in the way Nellie knew meant her mother was amused by her stubbornness. "Get goin'. I know you've missed 'is company in the afternoons now you don't have a willing audience to listen to you while you work. I'm not leavin' until you get up there."_

_Oh God, she really was compromised now. She couldn't refuse to go again; she didn't want her mother's suspicions raised any further; she already knew too much._

_"Alright, I'm goin', I'm goin'," she muttered as she was pushed in the direction of the door. Heart caught in her throat, she stepped out into the London drizzle. As she shook her already dampening locks out of her eyes, she turned to glare back at her mother. "I 'ate you for this."_

_She just guffawed and returned inside, no doubt to go and finish her work in the back._

_Sighing, Nellie began to trudge listlessly down the cobbles towards Fleet Street. She was finding it hard to breathe, exhaling loudly through her nose. Her veins felt as though they were laced with poison, freezing her brain. She would rather be going anywhere but this destination._

_At last she reached Fleet Street, spotting Albert Lovett's residence at once. Visibly shaking in the cruel wind which had snaked its way around her body, she peered into the large windows at the bottom of the house, wondering if Benjamin was sat in there. She couldn't see him, but she could see the bulking figure of his landlord._

_Albert Lovett heaved himself to his feet as he saw the frame of the tiny woman peering in through his windows. Making his way over to the door and throwing it open, he stared down at the young woman._

"_Yes?" he said with a gentle smile, noting how nervous she looked. "May I help you, Miss…?"_

"_Miss Brown," she supplied. "I'm lookin' for Mr. Barker. Is 'e around?"_

"_Ah, so you're the elusive Miss Brown, are you?" Albert mused as he looked over her. She certainly was a pretty little thing. "Mr. Barker talks about you a lot. All good things." He winked at her cheekily, and she smiled in return. "He's upstairs, if you'd like to go and see him. He's been down for the last few days, won't talk at all. I hope you can make him see sense."_

"_So do I," Nellie murmured, before dipping her head. "Thank you for your 'elp."_

_Albert waved it away. "Think nothing of it. I hope to see you again one day." He left her with that, and Nellie ascended the staircase to Benjamin Barker's tonsorial parlour._

_Her hands shook as they turned the handle, ignoring the _closed_ sign._

_He was standing motionlessly by the window, staring down at the street below. He was holding one of his razors, she noticed, cradling it against him like a child. He didn't seem to have heard the trill of the bell as she stepped over the threshold; in any case, his gaze did not shift from where it was trained._

_"Mr. B?" she said softly, wringing her hands together as she lingered in the doorway. Still no response. Cautiously she moved into the middle of the room._

_He didn't react until she was stood behind him with a tentative hand on his shoulder. Only then did he whirl around, eyes wild, hair messier than she'd ever seen it. Nellie took an instinctive step back as she took him in; there was an expression flitting across his face which did not suit the usually so pleasant barber. This look belonged to a being much darker being than the innocent man. This look belonged to a demon._

_"Benjamin…?" she said uncertainly. "Are you alright?"_

_At the sound of his Christian name the dark, almost-manic glint _(what did it mean?) _fled his eyes, leaving him staring at her in confusion and more than a little fear._

_"I'm sorry," he said quietly, expression bare before her eyes. Quickly stepping back to put some space between the two of them, he said, "what are you doing here?"_

_Sighing, Nellie ran a gloved hand through her tangled curls. "We need to talk. Mother's wonderin' why we're avoidin' each other."_

_Benjamin shook his head. "Miss Brown, I think it's best you leave."_

_"With all great respect, Mr. Barker," she retorted, seating herself primly on the barber's wooden seat, "I'm stayin right 'ere…" her voice trailed off, but she glanced up at him and whispered, "I don't want to lose our friendship over a stupid mistake, Benjamin."_

_He relented then, seemingly folding in on himself as he slumped down beside her. "What we did…we shouldn't have…"_

_"I know that, love," she agreed gently._

_He looked at her sharply. "Don't do that."_

_"What?"_

_"Don't call me _love_. It doesn't make it any easier!"_

_She frowned, hurt. "What are you goin' on about?" Doesn't make _what_ any easier?"_

_He didn't answer, just rubbed his temple._

_"Benjamin…?"_

_Hearing his name falling from her lips like a shooting star was too much for his already precarious state. His last nerve snapped. "Leave me, _Miss Brown_," he growled, leaping to his feet like a cat on scalding coals._

_Nellie's own temper flared. "You think I really wanna be 'ere? I could quite easily turn and walk outta 'ere without sortin' out this 'ole mess –"_

_"Then please do so," he gestured to the door with mock politeness, and she stared at him, cheeks flushed with ire._

_"Don't you dare take that tone with me! Not after everythin'! I don't see 'ow you 'ave the audacity to sit up 'ere mopin' about what we done, not when it was _you_ what started it all off!"_

_"You reacted!" he argued furiously. "You kissed me back; you did as much as I did!"_

_"An' I ain't disputin' that, am I?" she hurled back. "But I'm the one what 'as to live with what we've done! 'S'not like _you've_ gone an' acted like a whore, is it? You ain't got no obligations to keep yourself pure for your weddin' night, make excuses to the family for us bein' distant! An' you know what?" she was ranting now, but she didn't care. "I've tried not to think of meself as a slut an' I've lied to the people I love 'cause I'd 'oped we'd be able to put this 'ole encounter be'ind us as a rash episode on our be'alfs an' go back to normal. But 'ow can we do that when you're throwin' me outta 'ere as though our friendship means nothin' to you!"_

_Benjamin had been rendered silent throughout his landlady's outburst, but at the sound of her voice cracking over her words, he sprang into action. Against his better judgement he opened his arms to her, pulling her little body flush against his own. At first she was tense, but as he dropped a fierce kiss into her hairline, she relaxed, embracing him back; they stood together, united in their confusion._

_"Never think you're a whore Nellie, because of what we've done. And of course I still want us to be friends!" he muttered desperately into her hair. "You _know_ how much you mean to me!"_

_She sniffed, lifting her head and leaving a damp patch in her stead. "Then why won't you talk to me? Why won't you let me call you _love_?"_

_"Isn't it obvious?" he murmured; she shook her head._

_"Open up to me, Benjamin," she said, desperately wanting to share some of her friend's troubles._

_"Don't you see?" he whispered, eyes uncharacteristically naked. "I have, so much more than I ever should have…"_

_For a suspended second they stared at each other. Their hearts beat a thrilling tune in perfect synch. Their hot breaths mingled, easing each other's faces like a balm. Their hands trembled against clothing, a layer too thin to erase the beginnings of an unprecedented allegiance._

_And now Benjamin lowered his face. Nellie tilted her head slightly, and his lips brushed hers, hesitant, shy. Her eyes fluttered closed, and they stood like that, a portrait preserved for life. Finally their lips parted with a soft smack. They didn't move apart. For a moment, neither spoke._

_"I'm sorry," Benjamin breathed at last, "I shouldn't have –"_

_He stopped talking them, because she'd reached up as far as she could, her hands sliding to his shoulders, tremulous, her lips covering his again. All guilt fled them as they stood, lost in their own world, mouths tentatively tasting. Before they had time to process the last few minutes, clothes were slid slowly from bodies, the little bed rushing to meet them, its springs creaking rhythmically underneath them…_

_The second union was much rougher than the first had been, and Nellie's veins sang with pleasure as she quavered beneath him, muscles in her stomach tightening, voice escaping her in a strangled gasp._

_The last time had left them clinging to the edge of the precipice, teetering on the edge of temptation. This time tipped them over that edge, careening them towards the bottom of the pit._

_There was no turning back this time._

_

* * *

_

Once her guilt at having sex out of wedlock had dissipated completely, those mornings of heated passion had been a regular occurrence back in the day. Whenever her mother had gone out for the morning, Benjamin would come to the pie shop (there were never any customers anyway, Nellie reasoned; what harm would closing up for an hour do?), or when her mother could spare her, Nellie had slipped up to Benjamin's tonsorial parlour; pressing kisses to jaws, eyelids, cheeks, mouths; clothes slipping like silk from their bodies until it was only naked flesh pressed against naked flesh, fingers sliding over the hidden contours that they loved to seek. Kisses, licks, nips…

They'd made love for hours on end, pausing only to catch their breath before their passion would ignite again, never wanting it to end. But, of course, every time Mrs. Brown would return or Benjamin would have to return to work and reality would catch up with them. So it was those magical moments, cut off from the rest of the world, which Nellie looked forward to more than anything.

It was those moments which found Eleanor Brown falling slowly, irrevocably, in love with Benjamin Barker.

* * *

_With a final howl into her hair, Benjamin collapsed on top of her, nipping gently at her bottom lip. He then rolled off of her, pulling her close so she could rest her head on his chest. There was a comfortable silence between them, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing returning to a normal pace._

_"Nellie," he murmured, gently running his hand through her hair. "I've got to get you out of this."_

_"What do you mean?" Nellie asked sleepily, lifting her head._

_There was a pause before he said, "I want you. I _need_ you. We'll run away together. Just you and me. We'll go somewhere far away, start afresh. What we have…it could grow, don't you think?"_

_Nellie took a moment to mull this over. It was true. She loved her family very much, but they expected her to marry someone with money, someone who could support her. They would never approve of her choosing Benjamin because he was not as well to-do as they would have liked. But she lived only for this man now; lived for these snatched moments of secrecy in which she was truly happy. And she could deal with abandoning her family for him. Her mother would never have to worry about feeding her again. She could still send them money. If they could escape, get away…someplace by the sea perhaps…_

_"We'll run," he told her. "No one need ever know."_

_Nellie smiled, gazing adoringly at her lover. "Are you sure?"_

_"I'm sure."_

"Then yes," she murmured, her heart singing. "Yes."

_"Then as soon as we can, my pet," he whispered, dropping a kiss into her messy hair. "As soon as we can."_

_Nellie settled back down, a huge grin cracking her face. It had taken time, but her fantasies were coming true. The house by the sea. The marriage for love. Perhaps – dare she even consider it – a couple of beautiful children. Growling slightly, she rolled herself onto Benjamin's sweaty body, straddling his hips. His eyes snapped open as she rubbed herself against him, letting him feel none-too subtly how wet she was, quickly coaxing him to hardness. She braced her hands on his chest as he rested his on her hips, grinning with anticipation, and she sank onto him, a hoarse moan spilling from his lips as she began to ride him._

_She'd never been happier in her entire life._

_And that was when everything fell apart._

_Because, merely two weeks later, Benjamin Barker met the virtuous Lucy for the first time._

_

* * *

_

Nellie exhales, reaching unabashedly into the chest of the man upon the table. She pulls violently at the stringy flesh around the cavern of his ribcage, her hands slipping along the man's dead heart.

Benjamin had become infatuated with Lucy. He'd forgotten all about the little baker who lived down the street. Their moments of passion ceased at once. It wasn't even normal for him to step inside the shop on his way to market, and on the rare occasions that he did he talked only of Lucy. Lucy had ruined everything for her. Almost immediately they drifted apart. Her mother stopped asking why Benjamin no longer lingered about very quickly, and Nellie is exceedingly grateful for this. It would not have done for her mother to publicly denounce her as a whore; the world would have held her in contempt. She supposes that her decision to accept things at face value no matter what she truly thought was largely influenced by what had influenced hers: love. Now she's had time to think about it, Nellie supposes Mrs. Brown had always had an inkling of her daughter's casual alliances – she'd often caught her daughter staring dreamily in the direction of Fleet Street while she was working, or she and Benjamin conversing in low voices, her leaning over the counter to display her impressive bosom proudly. At the time she'd been too love struck to care, but now she sometimes feels a pang of guilt at the way she lied to her mother, the one woman she should have been able to trust with anything. She, at least, had loved her unconditionally and honoured her wedding to Albert when the time had come by not breathing a word of Nellie's cohorts with the barber to him.

* * *

_The pie shop's door swung open only minutes after Mrs. Brown's departure. Nellie's heart fluttered with anticipation, her hands jumping to the ties on her corset._

_"We ain't got long today," she grinned at him, winking. "But that shouldn't be a problem…" Benjamin cleared his throat nervously, pushing her prying fingers away when they came to rest on his belt. "Can we talk?"_

_Nellie frowned. "O' course, love. What about?"_

_"Just…let's sit down."_

_Mystified, she followed the young barber to one of the booths, sliding opposite him and reaching for his hands. He pulled them away._

_Feeling hurt now, Nellie clasped hers in her lap. "What's wrong?" she asked him softly, biting her lip anxiously._

_Benjamin stared into her eyes for a moment before averting his gaze, but she still had the time to read every painful emotion there as though that gaze had lasted for an eternity. Sorrow, regret, confusion._

_Her own trepidation rose._

_"If something's botherin' you, love," she said gently, "I want to know."_

_Swallowing hard, Benjamin opened his mouth to speak, his voice hoarse and raspy. He licked his lips nervously. "Nellie, I'm sorry – so sorry – but there's…there's someone else."_

_Nellie's heart stopped beating. She was suspended in time, her brain desperately trying to register what her ears had just heard._

There's someone else.

Oh no, please God, anything but that…

_"Who?" she croaked._

_Benjamin closed his eyes, visibly shaking as he continued to speak. "Lucy…her name is Lucy. We met at the flower market yesterday. I've thought of no one else since then…" he cut himself off firmly, realising where his thoughts were taking him. "Miss Brown, I think she might be the one for me." Her heart cracked a little more with the cool formality with which he spoke to her._

_"I see," she choked. She was already resentful of this Lucy character, who had succeeded in stealing Benjamin's heart in one short meeting, something which she herself had been fruitlessly attempting for months. Why was God so cruel to her? It just wasn't fair. Was she condemned to a life of watching her beloved love someone else? So it would seem._

"_It's not like we love each other," Benjamin said to her. He seemed to be trying to reassure himself as much as her. "We were never serious about eloping, or we would have acted at once. We've had our fun now. And that's all it was. Just some harmless fun, right?"_

_Fun. In the end, that was all it had ever been to him._

_Nellie smothered a sob, angrily blinking away the tears which invaded her eyes. How could something which had meant so much to her have meant so little to him? Every time she'd touched him, she'd felt on fire, burning with an insatiable desire for him. Had she had no effect whatsoever on him? She felt used, as though she had given herself to him for a lie._

_This was her chance. She could tell him that it was too late, that she'd already fallen head over heels for him. Or, better yet, that she was carrying his child. He would have to marry her then._

_But she didn't._

_She forced a smile instead. "O' course it was dear. I understand you completely."_

_It was breaking her heart. But she loved him so much, so entirely, that she had to do it._

_She sacrificed her own happiness for him._

_She let him go._

_

* * *

_

And still regrets it to this day. At the time she'd naively thought that he'd soon tire of chasing a woman who could offer him nothing but an empty smile. She'd thought that as soon as he realised what a terrible mistake he'd made he would come running back to her, begging her to forgive him and asking her to marry him.

He hadn't.

The grinding of the meat comes next, and Nellie heaves an armful into the top of the grinder. Stripping off the makeshift gloves she has made for this particular task, she turns the stiff handle and watches the tendrils ooze out of the other end in sloppy ribbons, falling into a wet pile in the bucket. She wipes the sweat from her brow again, then hauls the bucket to the stairs so she can take it up and stuff it into the waiting pies.

After their affair, Nellie had barely spoken more than a polite word to her ex-lover. When Albert Lovett had begun to pursue her, she'd accepted his proposal of marriage and settled down to work in a pie shop of her own. It had been acute agony working and living just a floor below the man that she loved, but Albert was a kind and generous man who loved her very much, and though she could not return his feelings, she cared a great deal about him; however, this did nothing to ease her pain. She'd been determined not to let Benjamin hurt her any more than he had done. She'd kept away from his wedding, feigning illness, but hadn't been able to suppress her bitter tears at the thought of him lying above her with his lovely wife, slowly and gently making love to the woman who she should have been in the place of. Benjamin hadn't seemed to care about the loss of their friendship at the time, too consumed with thoughts of his yellow haired beauty, and indeed hadn't even referred to the new-Mrs. Lovett with the affectionate shortening of her Christian name. Yes, she'd been determined that he wouldn't hurt her again.

But, oh, he had. The news of Lucy's pregnancy had hit her harder than anything else ever had, and she's sobbed desperately, ugly tears staining her face, her shoulders convulsing, hardly able to breathe, so strong was her devastation. Albert had comforted her, thinking it was the fact that she herself was so desperate for a child; it tore her apart that Benjamin was having everything she'd ever wanted with him with another woman.

* * *

_She slid herself into one of the pie shop booths, nursing an inconspicuous gin as she did so. In recent months she had turned to the burning alcohol for comfort more than ever. It was much easier than seeking out her husband; the gin did not ask her questions, only enveloped her willingly, allowing her to wallow in the memories that she'd let slip through her fingers like gold dust. Albert was currently down in the bakehouse, readying the goods bought from the local butcher for her meat supply. She herself was supposed to be fashioning the pastry for the pies, but well, she wasn't in the mood. Not now, when she could see the author of her despair, stood right outside her shop's door, continuing to fashion her pain without even realising he was doing it._

_She could see their fingers lacing, hands protecting each other from the harsh unknown of a barren land, where nothing but black and white existed. Once upon a time she had lived in that place; a place of hope and aspirations and dreams. A place where nothing in the world could possibly go wrong. Now there was no joy left for Nellie Lovett._

_Benjamin and Lucy Barker smiled at each other, their faces illuminated by a beautiful, innocent glow which made her heart bleed with longing, just to be the one out there with him, the one that Benjamin's smile was for alone. If only, if only, if only._

_Their eyes searched each other's shyly, finding solace and shelter in the loving gaze, lost in their own certainty that nothing would ever tear them apart._

_And it wasn't Nellie there, like he had promised her. Now it would never be her._

_She could hear voices as she lifted her tumbler of gin to her lips, and she tried to drown them out with the burning liquid as it trickled down her throat. No such luck. Their voices, soft and sweet, could still be heard, tender words muffled by the glass. The joy radiating from them, from their perfect life, was mocking, yet entrancing to watch; Nellie felt like a small child once more, staring open-mouthed as her mother told her tales of princes and princesses and true love._

_Then it was too much. She had to look away. She was not pure enough to compete with _perfectLucy_. She wasn't pure enough to witness their naïve life._

_Envy._

_It penetrated her soul, an iron fist around her heart, squeezing the life from her lungs. It knotted her stomach, bringing tears to her eyes, tears which could only fall silently in the middle of the night, as was her deserving fate for trying to claim the dear barber for her own when he was never hers in the first place._

_It burnt her throat more than the gin did, blinding her; all she could see were broken visions of the life she'd dared to fantasise about._

_Nellie was sure this all-consuming envy would never die. Every day she felt more miserable; every smile for the world was a forced one, burying the real Nellie Lovett so deep inside she could no longer breathe. And the worst thing was no one seemed to notice that the little baker was dying piece by excruciating piece. No one cared that she was dying of a broken heart._

_And that was what hurt the most; the fact that _no one noticed.

_God, she was sure it would destroy her. It was wedged so deeply within her heart and body and mind and soul that she knew, no matter what, she would never forget that pain. And, although she hated herself for it, she knew a part of her would never forgive Benjamin Barker for reducing her to this._

* * *

Nellie leaves the bakehouse, starting up the cold steps with difficulty, hauling the meat bucket awkwardly after her. She pokes her head in on Toby (he's still fast asleep), then makes for the pie shop.

Of course, in the months following Lucy's demise, she had been a mother to little Johanna, continuing the duties her true mother had abandoned. In those delusional moments she'd focused only on the aspects of Benjamin in the little girl, really imagining her to be the daughter of the barber and the baker. Sometimes Albert had tried to help her with the child, but by this time his leg had given out with gout, and he was unable to do much. That was fine by Nellie. Without his presence, she could lose herself in the past, in her mind seeing Benjamin smiling at her while she tended Johanna. She'd relished chasing about after the infant, crooning lullabies to her, chatting to her aimlessly, playing games with her. She'd thought that, finally, she could become the mother she'd always yearned to be.

Until Judge Turpin had taken Johanna away from her like a rag doll, leaving her with a hollow emptiness inside and silent tears on the out.

But now he is dead by Mr. Todd's hand, and it is coming full circle. The new version of Benjamin Barker is back in her life, and soon Johanna will be reunited with them.

Nellie takes the two full trays of pies back down to the bakehouse. The Judge and Lucy. They were the two people who were always destined to mess her life up. Mrs. Lovett places the pies in the bakehouse oven, closing the door securely behind her. She wipes the cumulating sweat from her brow, pausing for a moment on the way back to the parlour to rouse Toby. But now what is there to stop her? The Judge is dead. He can no longer terrorise her or Sweeney Todd with his overbearing presence. And Lucy…well, she's been dead for almost fifteen years, and memories fade in time like ghostly apparitions. Contrary to Todd's belief, he will not be able to cling to the image of the silly nit for ever; Nellie is a living, breathing, _loving_ example of what he could have if only he could see past his demons.

Perhaps things aren't perfect for them right now – Mr. Todd is still acting cold towards her – but perhaps the events of last week are a sign.

Perhaps they are a sign of the winds changing in her favour. She can wait.

If it takes her twenty years, she'll wait.

* * *

Anthony Hope hums to himself as he exits the little inn he is staying at. The air bites at his skin as he slings his bag over his shoulder, setting off in the direction of the docks, which are just around the corner. As is natural on his way to work, Anthony's mind drifts to Johanna. Locked, in a cage. Wings clipped, useless. His heart sinks with pity for the beautiful girl. If only he could think of a plan to rescue her; he'd save her from a terribly lonely life. He'd set her free, allow her to spread her wings. He'd take her to distant lands and show her their wonders. He'd marry her and take care of her for the rest of her life. But he wouldn't smother her. She's suffered enough of that already.

He's glimpsed her only once since that week before Christmas. She'd been sat at her window, eyes cast forlornly at the sky as she peered through the bars on her window. His heart had leapt into his chest, his mouth had dried, and he'd found himself willing her to glance down, to see him stood there, waiting…

_I haven't abandoned you._

Little clouds puff from his mouth and fog the air as he exhales slowly. He will dedicate the rest of the day to racking his brain for a way of releasing Johanna. Perhaps he'll be able to enter the house and speak to her again whilst the Judge is at work; he still has the key, after all…

Turning the corner at the end of the narrow street, his gaze is drawn at once to the small congregation of people gathered by the entrance of an alley beside his local tavern. The men in the crowd are mostly drunks, the women mainly whores, yet Anthony cannot repress a spark of curiosity. Just what is drawing such a crowd?

Glancing at the tower clock (which can just be seen peeping above the many buildings and furling smoke), the sailor deduces he can afford to detour for just a few minutes before he is due at the docks. He crosses the street, clutching his bag a little tighter (it wouldn't do to have it stolen; his entire savings are in it since he doesn't trust his landlord not to take them from him) and tries to jostle the crowd so he can get a better view. No such luck.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" he says, tapping the whore in front of him on her shoulder. She turns to face him, makeup smothering her features and breasts almost spilling over the top of her dress.

"'S a pound for me services, m'dear," she leers, reaching a dirty hand to the front of his trousers.

Anthony steps back hastily. "Oh, no thank you, ma'am. I was just wondering what you were looking at."

The whore looks affronted at his audacity in rejecting her advances, and huffs loudly. "That bleedin' Judge 'as been found, 'an' 'e?"

Anthony's brow furrows, blood turning to ice in his veins. "Judge?"

"Y'know, tha' main 'un at the Ol' Bailey. Turpin's 'is name, I reckon…"

She continues speaking, but Anthony's numb mind shuts down. Breathing becomes difficult. He cannot think.

_Turpin is dead._

His mind immediately latches onto Johanna, wondering how she is coping. Is that why he hasn't seen her for the past week? Or doesn't she even know yet?

Without being aware of actually moving, Anthony finds himself at the front of the crowd. His stomach churns at once, bile clawing at his throat. He turns and empties the contents into the nearest gutter.

Turpin – if it _is_ Turpin; the corpse in front of him is not even recognisable! – is sprawled on his back, stiff and colourless from the snow. There is congealed blood on his neck, sealing the gaping wound and running into his scarlet clothes. And his face _(God, his face)_…Anthony has never seen a worse atrocity, and he has seen his fair share of terrible injuries in his time at sea. The Judge is staring sightlessly at the London sky, horror, panic and anger forever frozen in his eyes. His lip is split entirely in two, blood coating his chin. From what he can see of the man's slightly agape mouth, blood also coats his teeth, the white eradicated for eternity. His cheeks are carved deeply, the flesh hanging on by mere threads of sinew. His nose is strangely crooked, as though it is broken, the skin scraped away so the bone is exposed to the world.

Anthony cannot stop himself from heaving up the remains of his breakfast again.

Shakily, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, a sudden sweat breaking over his forehead despite the chilly morning. Whoever has killed the Judge certainly made him suffer beforehand.

_Who would do such a thing?_

Again, his thoughts drift to Johanna. Defenceless, vulnerable, alone...

"Excuse me, sir," an irritable voice grouses, snapping the young sailor from his ruminations, "but we're trying to conduct an investigation here, and you're contaminating a crime scene."

Anthony glances quickly over his shoulder, realising the crowd has thinned. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," he replies, looking back to the officer, who is now tapping his foot impatiently. "I'll be going now."

"You do that," the officer nods scathingly and gives him a push in the right direction. In a daze, Anthony continues walking, his thoughts fevered. He has no idea of how the fate has befallen the Judge, but something terrible has happened. How long has he been there? How long has he been missing? How is Johanna coping? Perhaps she can provide him with answers…he resolves to visit her as soon as he possibly can.

At the end of the street, he turns for one last glance at the scene to sate his morbid curiosity. The officer who had spoken to him before is knelt in front of Turpin, hiding him from view. Beside him, still stood straight, is a second officer Anthony hadn't noticed before. As though he can feel Anthony's eyes on him, he slowly turns to face him. His cane gleams in the weak sunlight. His top hat looks sleek against the grimy backdrop. His mean gaze does not waver from the sailor's.

Anthony does not very much like the way the police officer is looking at him, one corner of his mouth hooked upwards in a feral triumph.

* * *

Sweeney Todd paces the tonsorial parlour, floorboards creaking musically beneath his feet. His mind, for once, is remarkably blank. There is no Lucy. Just a blissful sort of nothingness.

It's been this way for a week now; he's been surviving purely by going through the motions. It's down to Mrs. Lovett that he's been eating – she brings him three meals a day, loitering in the background until, in irritation, he forces down a few mouthfuls of whatever she's concocted so she leaves him alone, satisfied. She's also taken to peering around his door at night to see if he's sleeping; on average he dozes for a couple of uneasy hours before rising to pace in the dawn's first blush.

Judge Turpin has been dead a week. A whole, blissful week. And although a deadened weight – the remains of Benjamin Barker, perhaps? – has been lifted from his hollow chest, there is still a numb pain in the place were his heart should be. He doubts, deep down, it will ever leave him. It is, after all, what he has come to understand as the ghost of Lucy. Nevertheless, the thrill of his triumph is still fresh in his mind, and although he has sat there quietly reflecting on his beloved wife, he has not spent every waking minute dwelling on his lost moments of her. Instead he is filled with an almost feverish energy which has left him pacing the shop all hours, and even, though he hates it, canvassing the dark London streets at night. He still abhors London with a vengeance, still slits the throats of gentlemen whenever the opportunity arises (for that at least he can control, a god in his own right, and it's his duty to rid the world of filth like Turpin), but those deadly streets seem to welcome the killer to their midst, soothing his euphoria to a bearable level once he roves the streets like a tiger, reliving the moment Turpin's flesh yielded beneath his blade. He closes his eyes and sees himself clothed in the bastard's rubies, basking in their warmth and the loss of life.

He can feel the blood in his veins pounding almost painfully at the thought, craving that sensation again, and feeling restless, he crosses the room, flings open the door to stand on the little wooden landing, gazing down at the pie shop. The place is silent; he cannot see Mrs. Lovett bustling around in the front, but he knows she will be up, probably at work in the bakehouse. At the current time he does not want to go to the pie maker. He wants the solitude. Doubtless he wouldn't get it if she'd been in the shop and could see him.

He returns inside for only a moment to pull on his barbering jacket. Because of the early hour there is no one around, just how he likes it. He can wander at will without the large, suffocating crowds bearing down upon him.

Barely pausing for a second, he locks the door behind him. He doesn't bother leaving a note. He'll be back in good time.

Without sparing a glance behind him, he walks away from his territory.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett seems to be in a rather despondent mood, Toby notices, when he enters the tiny kitchen bleary-eyed and yawning.

"Mornin', Mum," he says, squeezing into one of the two seats at the table, picking up the cup of tea she has thoughtfully left for him.

"Mornin', my love," she returns, but her voice is lacking the beautiful brightness which sets her apart from the other faceless women. "Did you sleep well?"

He nods, biting into a slice of toast, knowing she doesn't like it so much when he speaks with a full mouth (_"ain't proper, Toby; I want you to grow up a li'le gentleman so no one can look down their nose or judge you 'cause o' 'ow you was raised…"_), but he can't stop himself from exclaiming, "Mum, 'ave you been cryin'!" when she turns to face him.

Quickly rubbing the back of her gloved hand over her cheek, she resists the urge to sniff again. "O' course not, Toby. Don't be daft."

"You 'ave," the boy insists, scrutinising her face even harder than before. "'As Mr. Todd upset you?"

_Doesn't 'e always? _Nellie wants to laugh at the sheer irony of it all. Instead she says briskly, "no, 'e 'asn't. I was just thinkin'."

"Thinkin'? "What about?" Toby picks up a second slice of toast, this one rather burnt. He eyes it dubiously for a moment, then bites into the corner carefully, somehow resisting the urge to pull a face.

"Oh," she says airily, "just some adult things, you wouldn't understand."

That's her excuse for everything she doesn't want him to know. _It's somethin' for a grownup to worry about. You're too young to understand._

He fixes her with a condensing stare and announces as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, "ma'am, I'm _twelve!_"

"I know you are," she says, clearly not understanding him.

He sighs. "I wanna know what's botherin' ya. Sons are _meant_ to be able 'elp their mums with their burdens. I wanna 'elp wi' yours."

"Oh, love," Nellie eyes soften at once as she places a plate of scrambled eggs and yet another slice of toast in front of him, not seeming to realise she's already fed him. "It ain't somethin' you'd be interested in 'earin'."

"You're always interestin', Mum," Toby says adoringly, and Nellie can't suppress a smile at his loyalty.

"Bless ya, son," she says fondly, pressing a kiss to his hair as she passes him to sit across from him at the table. "Well, since you seem so eager to know…I'll tell you. Was just first love, m'dear."

Toby wrinkles his nose. "First love?"

Nellie laughs this time, his expression too amusing to ignore. "Told ya you'd regret askin', sweet."

"Not at all, ma'am!" he hastens to explain. "Was just wonderin' why you was thinkin' about it. Wasn't that a long time ago?"

"You tellin' me I'm old?" she asks good-naturedly, her eyes twinkling mischievously, hiding another grin at his horrified expression.

"No, never!" he says devotedly. "You're not old!"

"'S'alright, to say it, dear," she grins. "I _am_ gettin' old an' nothin' is gonna stop that, I'm afraid."

He looks at her sadly for a second, then shoves a forkful of egg into his mouth. "Why was you thinkin' 'bout that anyway?" he asks through a mouthful.

She shrugs. "Dunno, love. 'Aven't thought about it in a long time."

"Somethin' musta brought it on."

"Toby, you're far too inquisitive for your own good."

"Sorry, ma'am. Was just wonderin'."

"Don't apologise, son. I just suppose…" she taps her chin thoughtfully. "I suppose, with Mr. T livin' 'ere with us…" her voice trails off, but Toby seems to catch on at once. Clearly he's not as simple as she'd first labelled him.

"'Cause you 'ave male company again, an' it made you think o' the first time you felt love."

Technically it's never gone away (her feelings have always been for Benjamin Barker, transferred to Sweeney Todd upon his return), but she smiles wistfully anyway. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

Toby shifts in his seat, frowning a little now. "So, who was your first, ma'am? If you don't mind me askin'."

Another thoughtful tap to her chin, something which the boy notices she does a lot. "Well, I'd 'ad a few passin' fancies when I was just a li'le older than you are now, but I didn't feel the _real_ thing 'til I was twenty. It was for a man called Benjamin Barker."

He notices the sad, dreamy look in her eyes, gazing upon images of a time only she can see. "What was 'e like?"

The dreamy look intensifies, and Toby is nearly overwhelmed by the multitude of emotions roiling in her eyes: joy; sadness; affection. "Oh, 'e was the most charmin' man I ever met. 'E was always willin' to listen to me, 'e never raised 'is voice, 'e never made me feel inferior. 'E 'ad the most gorgeous smile an' the most beautiful face an' the softest 'air. 'E was a real gentleman."

"You must've loved 'im a lot."

"Oh, I did, dear. More than I can say."

"So what 'appened?"

"We was…" she wonders how to best describe her relationship's end with Mr. Barker. "Together, for a while. But then…'e met someone else an' married 'er instead."

"Oh." Toby is at a loss for words. "Well, that's a pretty rotten thing for someone to do, Mum."

"'E was young an' naïve," Nellie finds herself defending the former Mr. Todd. "'E never treated me bad, an' we was still friends…after." Well, sort of. "Like I said, it was years ago. I don't think o' it very often anyway." Oh, what a lie that is.

"Was that when you met your 'usband, then?"

She freezes, recalling passionate, vivid moments with the barber; hands, greedy, ravenous, possessive, clawing at her back, holding her close, brushing her damp hair from her sweaty forehead, all in the too-short moments they could snatch when her parents hadn't been around to the more faded memories of her wedding with her Albert.

"Yes, dear," she says softly. "It was."

* * *

Ten minutes later she leaves the room to set up the shop, and the smile on Toby's face vanishes instantly. He hates seeing her looking so glum; it's such a rare occurrence that he'd thought it almost impossible for her to be anything but happy. And indeed, she _does_ say herself that there's nothing worse than crying because tears don't solve anything. Mrs. Lovett usually sings away her problems, forgets them with her precious fantasies of a life by the sea with him and Mr. Todd.

Mr. Todd.

Toby's mood darkens further at the thought of the barber and his mouth twists sardonically. In the past week he has barely been down; Mrs. Lovett religiously takes his meals up to him three times a day despite how busy she is.

"Knowin' that silly man," she'd told him yesterday, "'e probably wouldn't even notice 'is stomach grumblin' until 'e'd 'alf-starved 'imself. That's why 'e needs me to look after 'im."

That may be so, but Toby privately thinks that running herself into the ground for a man who doesn't even notice her, let alone respect her, is a bit pointless. But, he supposes, that's what love does to you. It only saddens him to think that she would do anything for him _("I'd die for 'im," she'd said simply when he'd asked her why she didn't just throw him out on his ear after the boy had heard another violent outburst directed towards his adoptive mother, and he'd hugged her tightly, burying his face in her chest, hiding his horror in the warmth and assuredness of her tender embrace.)_.

It confuses him above reason how she can possibly love such a man. There is a silent, terrible aura which emanates from his being. The adults don't seem to notice it, or if they do they glance away quickly and pretend that everything is in order in their filthy and God-lovingly corrupt city. Things are like clockwork: never changing. And, like clockwork, men consistently commit nefarious deeds; and with each passing dong of the city's clock tower, men's souls are lost to the Devil. Sometimes Toby believes he is the only one who can see evil in the world. Perhaps it is his innocence – not yet fully destroyed – which can naively detect all things of darkness. Like the gentlemen who had been in the shop yesterday, for instance; they had smiled warmly at him as he'd served them. Beneath the surface had been the omnipotent desire to bring down their canes on his fragile skull, like they did daily at the workhouse. Every man has the ability to do evil within them. So do some women, although they do not act on this impulse. They are much more trustworthy than men. _Women_ have never beaten him for not working quickly enough, or broken his bones to instil the fear. Women are beautiful and kind and can do no wrong. There is no greater woman than Mrs. Lovett, with her gentle hands and warm eyes and loving smile and tender words. Mrs. Lovett is the only woman he can love so completely, trust so fully, pledge undying loyalty to so easily. He would do anything for her.

Which is why he doesn't want to see her get hurt by Mr. Todd's hand. He has never done anything outwardly wrong, but he certainly has the ability to do bad: it's in his eyes. He hides his insanity from the outside world, but Toby can see it in his soul (or what is left of it), a terrifying madness which has the potential to destroy everything around it with its destructive nature, a storm brewing behind his dark gaze.

Like on Christmas Day. As the day had progressed, the storm had been gathering, the sea churning the madness, the lightning illuminating the darkness, the wind howling his demons, the rain crying his grief. It hadn't been noticeable at first (Toby himself had mistakenly thought that the barber hadn't seemed as melancholy as usual), but as the day had progressed, so had the foundations of the disaster in his heart, until it had erupted in the moments of madness which had resonated in the parlour below: the laughter of the Devil. It had pierced his very soul, raising hairs on the back of his neck, chasing shivers down his spine.

_And it still hadn't bothered Mrs. Lovett._

She'd just calmly ascended the stairs to his parlour and he'd heard her soothing, dulcet tones through the floorboards, the barber answering her with what could only be described as a growl from the Devil himself. Toby had heard the clump of her boots as she'd no doubt moved over to where Mr. T had been stood, and then there had been silence. Mrs. Lovett had not returned until after he'd fallen asleep.

He doesn't know what had prompted such a hideous, chilling sound from Mr. Todd, but it surely hadn't been anything good. Toby has never actually _seen_ him do anything wrong, but he is sure it is there, right beneath the surface.

And he will protect his mum no matter what. She is blinded by love, so he will be her eyes. He will look out for her.

* * *

Todd stalks the streets, eyes narrowed with purpose, ignoring the few passersby at this early hour, who spare him a curious glance, intrigued by the man with the dark, wild hair and the eyes to match. His footsteps barely echo on the iron pavement, muted by the darkness which tracks his being. It is just beginning to rain colourless droplets; the tears he cannot cry. Todd turns his face up to the sky, relishing the feel of the wetness on his face, blessing his lips and running down his cheeks like his liquid sorrow. He doesn't even realise where his feet are taking him until he is stood before his destination, staring at the hollowed, monstrous eyes of the late Judge Turpin's house.

The house his daughter is a prisoner in.

At once he seeks out the windows at the front of the house, remembering clearly that the sailor had told him that he could see the pretty yellow haired angel from the street. Information regarding Lucy, Johanna and the Judge is the only kind he ever retains. He continues to take in the windows eagerly, a dehydrated man drinking from the glass placed before him. Each window he tries to peer in is void of his pale girl, but he continues to crane his neck, desperate for a glimpse of her, the baby he has not set eyes on for fifteen long, hollow years.

Nothing. The windows merely leer unpleasantly, as though taunting him that they are hiding his daughter from sight.

It feels as though the last of his feverish energy is sapped from his limbs at the one realisation that his daughter is not there hits. Stumbling like a drunken man, he takes the few paces to the cold wooden bench and collapses onto it, never taking his eyes from those windows for fear of missing a flash of yellow hair. He is quite a sight to behold, with his madly darting eyes and lips pulled back in a primitive snarl, but he barely registers the frightened glances the passersby cast his way, too lost in his own thoughts.

His baby, his Johanna, his last connection to Lucy, barred in the house of a perverted, corrupt bastard, like a bird in a cage. _His_ property, taken from him, _his_ child warped and caged and defeated so she knows nothing of her heritage and has no idea that her father is sitting mere feet from her front door.

But he could change that, if he wanted to.

The cold metal of his friend sings through the air as he withdraws it and brings it whipping down in front of him. He springs to his feet, half-formed ideas chasing each other around his head. Farfetched plans of him racing to the door, hammering on it, demanding entrance, tearing into the house as soon as the door is unbolted, slashing open the throat of anyone who dares to stand in his path, spilling the rubies of anyone who has the audacity to prevent him from reaching his daughter, be it man or woman. He could grab her now, pull her onto the street, carry her to the docks and board a ship with her. He could take her far away from this filthy pit, leaving the last, bitter remains of his past, the sailor boy, Mrs. Lovett and her whelp in London. He could take his daughter so far away to a country where no one would know them, where they could start anew and begin the relationship which has never quite been in his grasp, like the stars in the night sky.

He comes back to his senses mere centimetres from the handsome oak door, fist raised, razor flashing in the dim sunlight. Sweeney blinks a couple of times to dispel his confusion (he can't quite remember moving at all), hand falling limply to his side as he stares blankly at the door. As much as he'd relish driving his razor into the throat of each person who has helped to keep Johanna locked up in a house of monsters, he knows that it is a burning wish he'll never be able to fulfil. If he somehow managed to slaughter each person without being cut down himself, he knows how unlikely it would be for him to convince Johanna that he – a demon bathing in blood – can be trusted to look after her ferociously until death. And, if by some miracle, she _did_ choose to follow him, he would never get away, not covered in bloody redemption. The police would swarm over him in moments. He'd be sentenced to death. Or worse, Australia.

It's not something Sweeney Todd can ever go through again. Barker had been too weak to survive in a place like Botany Bay, but even Todd had sometimes found it almost impossible to keep the screams of agony locked inside his chest when the whip had been lashed onto his back, slicing the skin into bloody ribbons. He's not entirely sure that he'd be able to survive the entire ordeal again, not when this time he'd have no motive to keep him living.

The only comforting thought about this is that he'd be joining his Lucy again.

The thought darkens at once. No, he wouldn't. His darling Lucy is in Heaven, where she deserves to be. Sweeney Todd is not destined for the same place. He gave up his right to Heaven the moment Barker allowed him to break through his skin.

There is no way he'll ever be able to go back to Australia. That is a fate worse than death.

So, the remains of his heart protesting as he does so, he steps backwards, away from Turpin's house, away from his daughter, away from his past. The act is almost enough to kill him in its wealth of difficulty.

But now is not the time to act rashly. What is it that Mrs. Lovett is always telling him to do? _Wait, love, wait._ Well, he'll wait a little longer. Weigh up his options, see if he can think of a way to free his little dove.

Feeling more drained than he has in weeks, Sweeney Todd turns away from the house where Johanna Barker is trapped.

The morning is proving to be yet another busy one. Both Nellie and Toby are dashing madly about the room, serving out the pies as quickly as possible. Nellie is glad she'd decided to put in the two extra batches after all.

* * *

"Mrs. Lovett!"

At the sound of her name Nellie spins around, almost knocking the tumbler of ale out of a harassed Toby's hands as he rushes past.

"Sorry, love!" she calls after him, then weaves her way between the tables towards the gaggle of beckoning women. She groans inwardly at the sight, recognising them at once – they're the group of women who like to sit around all day, watching the world go by and gossiping about its inhabitants with poisonous tongues. Without fail, they visit the pie shop once a week.

"What can I do for you today?" Nellie asks brightly. "An' make it quick, dears, I've got much to be gettin' on with."

"We'll just have a pie each," Mrs. Harvey, the leader of the vicious vultures smiles disarmingly, then lowers her voice in a conspiratorial manner before Nellie can move away. "Can I ask you something?"

The baker frowns. "O' course. 'S'matter?"

"I'm assuming you heard about the Judge Turpin's sudden disappearance?"

She freezes (so it's finally out, then?), manages to squeak, "what?"

Mrs. Harvey's eyes light up with genuine pleasure at this, relishing the opportunity to recount a scandalous tale. "Oh my dear, where have you been this past week?" she crows. "It's been around the city like wildfire, I can't believe you haven't heard! No? Well, it's all very mysterious. According to one of the maids, he went out on Christmas Day evening and never returned. Didn't let anyone know where he was going, just said that he had business to attend to. That's the last anyone heard from him. Vanished that very night. His poor little ward is in pieces over it – doesn't move out of the house, poor thing, she's terrified that whatever got her guardian will be after her too…"

"Really?" Nellie manages to keep the scepticism out of her voice as she unconsciously wipes her hands on her skirts. She doubts very much that Johanna is 'terrified' of 'whatever got her guardian' – she has her Anthony now, and judging from the young man's determination to set her free from her prison, he will do anything for her. In any case, the poor dear hasn't been out of that godforsaken house in almos5 sixteen years of her life. "Well, if you'd excuse me, ladies, I'll just pop an' fetch yer pies…"

"Did you know his body has been found?"

She freezes. Turns back excruciatingly slowly, her eyes wide and her heart rattling against her ribs. "What?"

Mrs. Harvey smiles smugly, satisfied with regaining Nellie's interest. "Just this morning, down by the docks. Lying there with his neck slashed open and his face almost unrecognisable. Looks like he might have been ambushed, though it does look rather like a mindless killing to me; none of his possessions were stolen, still had a pretty ring in his pocket…word has it that he was going to ask for his ward's hand in marriage. That new constable, Mr. Hawthorne, has been put in charge of the case. He's determined to get it solved as quickly as possible. He's an expert in his field, I hear."

"That so?" Nellie is grateful for the nonchalance in her voice even as she drags her fingers nervously through her tangled locks. "Well, I'll jus' fetch them pies for you. Back in two shakes." She leaves them to their gossip, bolts through the back to stand in the parlour, breathing hard. So, it's finally happened. The Judge's body has been found. She resolves to tip Mr. Todd off as soon as she has a spare moment. No doubt Hawthorne will be sniffing round for clues; while they've made sure there is no evidence linking them directly with the crime, the policeman will doubtless remember the argument of a few days prior – if he decides to pursue that way of thinking, then they'll be done for. She and Mr. T need to get their stories straight so they can smoothly corroborate each other's tale. It won't do to get caught unawares at such a crucial state.

The two of them will have to be on their guard. She doesn't think Toby or Anthony noticed anything out of the ordinary Christmas night, but it won't pay to be complacent. She'll casually quiz her boy about the event, and she'll make a decision from there.

The ball is in her court now, and she needs a calm move to stay in the game.

* * *

An hour ago Sweeney had climbed the stairs to his tonsorial parlour, ignoring Mrs. Lovett calling his name over the din of the customers. He'd opened the door to his shop, feeling unable to even switch the sign. He'd thought that if he'd done so then no man would have left his lair alive, regardless of whether he'd been with his family or not. He'd retracted his razor and stormed over to the window to glare out at the passing world while he was stuck in time. He hasn't moved from that spot since, his mind working frantically with thoughts of his Johanna.

There must be a way to rescue her. The sailor boy appears to be making no progress on that front, and Todd is almost certain that the time for individual action is upon him. For too long he has relied on other people to do things for him: some of the less menacing men in Botany Bay when he'd reached there as a whimpering, shivering Benjamin Barker; Mrs. Lovett housing him and tending to his every need and baking his victims into pies; Anthony to rescue his daughter.

But no more. This time Sweeney Todd is going to take things into his own hands.

How to do it, though? Anthony has been trying for weeks to rescue her, to no avail. Johanna has been guarded fiercely, like a trove of treasure, and he doubts too much has changed despite the deaths of both the Beadle and Turpin. Perhaps it's _because of_ these deaths that nothing has changed. In any case, there is still that police officer hanging around. He will have to be taken care of in the future.

Anything, he realises with a sudden aching desperation that can only come from being a parent; he'd do anything to see her, meet her, hold her. He can barely remember the memories of baby Johanna anymore, but that doesn't change the fact that she is his.

Perhaps…perhaps he could go to the house and pretend to be a concerned friend of the Judge, he muses, barely aware of the fact that he has begun to sharpen his razor with Mrs. Lovett's new strop as he so very often does when he is brooding. He could ask to be allowed inside to see the Judge's ward and offer his condolences over his disappearance. Upon his perpetration, he could tell her that he knew her father and to meet him away from the house if she wished to know more. He could tell her the whole story away from the prying eyes of London, could tell her that although he isn't the man he used to be, he still loves her as fiercely as he did the day she was born.

But what if the staff recognised him? Not as Benjamin Barker, of course, but Sweeney Todd's tonsorial parlour has become famous over the last few months, and he himself is not the kind of person who can blend in with his surroundings due to his haunted eyes, pale skin and distinguished white streak. And what if Johanna cannot escape the house? She would still be no better off.

Still, there must be a way, he tells himself as he examines the metal. He won't accept it any other way. Johanna is within freedom's grasp, and even if he has to pledge himself to Hell earlier than he'd imagined, he'll help free his daughter. It's his duty to her. It's his promise to _Lucy._

His period of bliss is over.

He will not let his girls down again.

* * *

"Miss Turpin?"

Johanna glances up from the cross-stitching she has been despondently creating for the last two hours to find one of the maids standing cautiously in the doorway. Her name is Mrs. Fenshawe, she thinks.

"What is it?" Johanna asks softly, placing the needlework on the windowsill, clasping her hands demurely in her lap, and the little old woman tentatively enters the room, head inclined in respect.

"Mr. Hawthorne is here to see you, miss, if you should feel so inclined," she says, nervously re-adjusting her spectacles.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" Johanna's brow furrows daintily. "I'm afraid I don't know who he is." _I know nothing of life beyond these walls, you should know that._

"He's a police constable, miss," Mrs. Fenshawe regales dutifully, her face creasing with worry. "He says the matter at hand is important. Perhaps it has something to do with our lord's disappearance."

"Very well then," Johanna says, standing and smoothing out her dress. "I will see him in my guardian's study."

Mrs. Fenshawe nods, then leaves.

Taking her time to smooth out her skirts, Johanna stands up and casts a morose glance out of her window. She has taken to rising later than she has ever done before because of the lack of strict routine in her life, and awakening later means that she does not have to spend as many listless hours cross-stitching, looking down at the street below through the glass barrier separating her from the outside world. With the Judge absent (the staff refuse to contemplate the notion that he may never return), the ownership of the house has subtly been shifted to his young ward temporarily. Now that they've been given the chance (the Judge had made it abundantly clear before that not one of the servants were to have more contact than was absolutely necessary with the young woman), the servants have become slightly more relaxed in her presence, and for the first time in her life, Johanna feels like she has people she can speak to freely. The Upper Class of London are stiff and oppressive; the girl feels much more at ease with people who share her hereditary status.

She wishes she still had her parents.

But that's one wish that will never come true (she's hoped for it desperately, fists clenched until her palms have bled un-daintily), and so Johanna Turpin gathers herself and makes her way from her room. She supposes her life is not completely terrible – she has a comfortable bed unlike beggars in the street, never goes hungry or wanting fine clothes – but she's always dreamed of having more freedom. Freedom to roam the house at will, freedom to go out and mix with people her own age. Johanna is only sixteen but she feels twice her age, her positive outlook of the world damaged beyond repair. She'd thought that Anthony could have been an outlet for her, but even he seems to have shied away from having any more to do with her.

It's something she laments, but it's something she's accepted; her childhood years are the wasted ones. Still, she squares her shoulders gracefully (a trait of her mother's or her father's?), paints a quick (and decidedly fake) smile onto her pretty features before opening the door to the Judge's study.

The man is portly and almost a head shorter than Johanna herself. His large moustache quivers as his mouth widens in a smile, advertising his yellowing teeth. The stench of cold sweat permeates from his being (Johanna has to keep her face muscles rigid to keep herself from recoiling in disgust at the awful smell); fresh perspiration glistens on his forehead despite the cold conditions outside. His twists his top hat in his beefy hands.

"Miss Turpin?" he asks, extending one of his hands in a friendly fashion.

"Mr. Hawthorne, I presume," she returns, taking the proffered arm, and inwardly cringes at the sensation of his clammy palms. "What may I do for you?"

His eyes rove her face greedily for a second, dropping his gaze lower to rake over her chest. Johanna feels naked under his stare, pulling her hand free and putting some distance between them. This seems to break the unwanted spell she has unwittingly cast over him, and he clears his throat, sweeping his hat onto his balding head. "You may want to sit down for this."

Johanna bristles slightly at the commanding tone of the stranger, but years of being brainwashed into meek submission have her crossing the room to perch on the armchair by the hearth. Mr. Hawthorne follows her path, coming to a stop in front of her. She stares up at him with dark eyes, apprehension and curiosity filming her vision.

"I'm afraid," he says slowly, "that your guardian has been found. I offer my condolences."

Johanna can do nothing but stare. Her jaw has dropped, but she doesn't bother closing it.

"P – Pardon?" she stammers, faintly, the words cooling her blood. It cannot be possible…

"The Judge is dead," Mr. Hawthorne repeats gently. "He was found just three hours ago by the docks. I would have come earlier but I had to be there while the preliminary investigation was conducted."

"How?" Johanna hears herself ask, her voice faraway even to her own ears. "What happened?"

"Well, we don't know the full story yet, you have to understand that we haven't had the time to progress any further in the case at the current time…but, judging from the extent of his injuries, I'd say he was murdered."

_Murdered._ The word hangs in the air like a plague between them. Johanna feels nothing. Just a numbing in her chest, the horror of the revelation. A grotesque image of her guardian, lying dead on the thinning ice, muscles its way to the forefront of her mind. Eyes staring sightlessly ahead. Spread-eagled. Skin as cold and pale as the snow he is lying on. And red…

"How was he killed?" she whispers, fighting back burning bile at the mere thought of the blood; despite this, the morbid desire to know claws its way out of her.

Mr. Hawthorne hesitates for a moment, obviously debating whether to tell her the truth or not. She stares at him, tilting her chin defiantly, as though daring him to lie to her.

"His throat was slit," he says monotonously, avoiding the young woman's gaze. "I believe _that_ was his true cause of death, but his injuries were multiple and extreme."

A second, more violent image tears apart her mind: a spray of blood from Turpin's neck; writhing desperately as he slowly chokes to death on his own blood, while a dark, menacing shadow leaves him to his gruesome fate…

This time she cannot stop the bile from swarming her mouth, and before Mr. Hawthorne can utter another word she has turned and fled the study, reluctant tears spilling down her cheeks as she races to the bathroom.

She might never have loved her guardian, but he had raised her for almost her entire life, and in her own way she had cared about him.

Even if it had only been a little.

* * *

"Toby!"

Over the din of the pie shop, Toby hears Mrs. Lovett's musical tone. He looks up from the table of men whose glasses of ale he is refilling.

"Yes, Mum?" he calls back, taking the opportunity to wipe his red face on the sleeve of his tattered sleeve.

"Can you come 'ere a minute, love?" she asks, motioning him over to the back of the shop. "I just want a quick word with you."

He mutters an apology to the group of gentlemen before hurrying away, dropping the empty jug onto the counter as he passes.

"What is it, Mum? 'Ave I done somethin' wrong?"

"O' course not," she says with a smile, gesturing to the couch. Outside, Toby can hear the din of the shop, but it is pleasantly muffled, as though he is listening to it through a sheet of glass. The effect is a dreamy one, ensconcing the two of them in their own little world, nothing there to harm mother and son.

"What's wrong?" he asks Mrs. Lovett, noticing her wringing the rag in her hands. He wonders if she is still brooding over her first love.

She forces herself to calm, relaxing the muscles in her face. "I was just wonderin'…" she pauses, realising there is no subtly tactful way of putting her question, "what you 'eard on Christmas Day Night?"

Toby eyes her with confusion, crossing his arms across his chest. "Why?"

She tries to shrug evasively. "'S just that Mr. T…well, 'e was a little…well, 'e wasn't 'imself, was 'e?"

"No, 'e wasn't," Toby agrees, privately thinking that the man had gone completely insane. "But why do you wanna know what I 'eard on Christmas Day Night?"

"Just…I don't want you to repeat what you 'eard to no one. Mr. Todd ain't mad, an' I don't want 'im to get thrown into some mad 'ouse because o' a simple misunderstandin'."

"I won't breathe a word to anyone, ma'am," the lad says at once. He doesn't bother adding that he is too scared to do so because of the state it would leave Mrs. Lovett in to lose the moody barber, or what said moody barber would do to him if he ever found out who had ratted him out. "An' it was only laughin', right? Nothin' wrong with that."

Mrs. Lovett smiles, looking oddly relieved. "Yeah, that's right, son. Nothin' wrong with it at all. Now, off with you. The customers ain't gonna serve themselves, are they?"

Toby shakes his head and hurries back into the shop, Mrs. Lovett following close behind. The fact that Toby hadn't heard the banging and the howls on Christmas Night is a miracle; she no longer has to wrack her brains cooking up impossibly unrealistic notions as to why the barber was acting even more unstable than usual. The laughing she'd be able to explain away. The howling she would not. It's a blessing that Toby is such a simple creature when it comes to believing her.

She picks up a tray of pies from the counter and returns to dishing them out with a smile. Their secret is still safe.

For now.

* * *

It's five minutes later when Johanna hears the cautious footsteps slapping against the polished wooden floor. From her place inside the bathroom, bent over the expensive porcelain sink, Johanna hears the footsteps pause just outside the door. There is a gentle tapping, probably the cane Mr. Hawthorne has hooked over his arm.

"Miss Turpin, are you alright?" Yes, she's right; the police constable has followed her here.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir," she replies shakily, lifting brown eyes to stare reproachfully at her reflection in the mirror. Yellow hair tumbles messily to one side, where she'd swept it in her haste to move it from her path, and her face is even paler than it usually is. She looks terrible. "Give me a moment and I will join you again."

"Of course, miss."

Johanna listens to the footsteps retreat a few paces, then she sets to work rinsing the acrid taste of bile out of her mouth, running her fingers through her blond locks to tame them once more and smoothing her dress out to make herself look more presentable. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves (she has the urge to be sick again when she thinks of her guardian's fate, but resolutely pushes the instinct away), she unlocks the door.

Mr. Hawthorne is stood in the hallway, and turns upon hearing the click of the lock.

"What else do you need to say to me?" she asks, ignoring his questioning look. "I'm assuming that's why you're still here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were alright before I left," he says with a smile that would have been charming if not for his darting eyes. "After all, you've had quite the shock. But there is also the matter of your inheritance to discuss."

Johanna is confused. "My inheritance?"

Mr. Hawthorne clicks his tongue, withdrawing a thick sheaf of paper from the coat of his pocket. "Of course, young miss."

"I didn't know I would be left anything," Johanna says honestly, chewing on a fingernail before realising what she's doing and retracting it from her mouth.

"It's all here, on this paper. I took the liberty of informing the House of Records and they passed your guardian's will onto me to give to you."

He offers her the sheet, and she reaches out for it with trembling fingers, as though fearing it will magically transform into a snake and sink its poisonous fangs into her outstretched hand. That doesn't happen, and Johanna Turpin's future hangs in the balance as she unfolds it shakily with bated breath, her eyes scanning the page.

Her breath leaves her the next instant in a gasp of surprise as the content of the page hits her full-force.

_I, Judge Peter Turpin, bequeath my entire estate and savings to Johanna Lucy Turpin._

Everything. Everything is hers.

"There is one more thing…" Hawthorne says, delving into his pocket once more, and Johanna waits in trepidation. Whatever he intends to show her fits snugly in the palm of his hand. His fingers unfold –

_(A ring sits there, glimmering gently in the light. A silver thing, pretty, set with a modest diamond. It looks very much like an –) _

"I don't suppose you have any idea who Judge Turpin was intending to give this to?"

_(- engagement ring.)_

Johanna feels herself slipping into rushing darkness, opening her arms to embrace it.

* * *

Watching as the door is closed behind him, Charles Hawthorne takes a moment to allow himself a smug grin. He thinks that the meeting with young Johanna Turpin went rather well. He'd called a maid as soon as the fragile thing had fainted, and had waited until she'd been bundled into her bed before leaving with a tip of his hat.

The fate of the Judge's wealth had not come as a surprise to him when he'd taken a sneak peek at the will – on the contrary, it was predictable. The young girl, on the other hand, had not seemed to have expected it.

It just makes everything much more interesting.

Hawthorne's cane echoes against the cobbles as he turns down a filthy alleyway, back towards the docks and the place where the Judge had been found. Before he'd left for the Old Bailey, Hawthorne had left young officer Brook in charge of keeping people away from the crime scene, but as he returns, he can see a crowd has gathered around the immobile body, like flies drawn to death's arms. Brook stands at the front, looking harassed and agitated, attempting to keep the mass at bay.

"What appears to be the problem?" Hawthorne asks smoothly as he squeezes his way through. Brook's eyes widen at the sight of his superior.

"Sir," he stammers, "I did try to keep them away –"

"Never mind that now," he says, exasperated. The officers in London are as incompetent as the ones in Leeds. He turns to the small gathering and fixes them with his best glare of authority. "Nothing more to see here. Now move along."

With grumbles of disappointment, the congregation disperses. Brook looks relieved. "Thank you, sir."

"Has Mr. Alexanders sent anyone down yet?" Hawthorne interrupts.

The young officer looks slightly put-out. "No, sir. I believe the earliest he can come in is in an hour's time."

Hawthorne's gaze drifts to the corpse of the Judge, unable to stop his stomach from clenching unpleasantly (Lord, so much blood – the suffering he went through is surely unbelievable to think about). The body is due to reside here for another hour, but he supposes nothing is spoiling. Due to the harsh, freezing weather, decay has not had the chance to set in, and he doubts it will start within the next hour. Once the body is moved, he will accompany it to the morgue and await confirmation of the cause of death. Then the public can be informed, and Hawthorne can plan the next stage of his plan. There is no doubt in his mind of who has committed this heinous crime. There is no evidence to prove it yet, but he knows. Sweeney Todd. Instinct tells him that there is more to the barber than meets the eye. But, he will not go straight for the proverbial jugular. No, Hawthorne is much more cunning than that. He has a better idea.

"An hour, you say?" he asks Brook, who nods sulkily, as though he doesn't want to make the effort to speak to address a question he's already answered. Hawthorne deliberates for another moment, thinking of the ring in his pocket before making his decision. "Wait here and do not allow anyone else to come near. I have someone I need to question."

Brook's eyes widen. "A suspect, sir? Why didn't you say anything? He might have fled!"

"No, it's nothing like that. I'm just going to do a general canvass, see if anyone remembers seeing something suspicious a week ago. Keep things under control."

"Of course, sir," Brooks answers reluctantly and Hawthorne nods, extending his cane.

As he makes his way down to the end of the road, his thoughts drift to the lad he had seen this morning. There is no mistaking him. Judge Turpin had described him in great detail, albeit with disdain. The young man who Hawthorne had seen at the scene of the crime had to be the sailor the Judge had been worried would entice his ward away from him. The look of horror upon the lad's face when he'd caught sight of the policeman had not gone unnoticed by him, and he fingers the ring in his pocket thoughtfully. Hawthorne knows that the sailor has not committed the monstrous crime, but he knows that he will be the perfect scapegoat. If what he believes is true, then the barber and the baker between them have disposed of the Judge. From the way that the barber and the Judge had squared up to each other, and from the information that Hawthorne has gleaned from the unknowing street urchin, the policeman believes that the barber is more than capable of murder. However, if his preconception of Mrs. Lovett is true (and he prides himself on his judgement), then she will panic at the thought of the sailor being framed for something he hasn't done – who knows, perhaps she will come to him tearfully, to tell him the true perpetrator of the crime…

Yes, the sailor will be the perfect person to pin the blame onto. And there is always the tiny chance, however unlikely, that he _does_ know something about it himself. If so, perhaps he will crumple under the pressure…

Hawthorne smiles in satisfaction.

* * *

He stands by the window, caressing the tamed blade in his hand with one finger. Below, he can hear the bustling of the pie shop, the loud shouts for more ale, more pies, the ceaseless clink of metal on ceramic as the customers delve into their fellows. Both Mrs. Lovett and the boy are below his feet; he is alone. No one for company. And this is the way he likes it. Solitude has been his companion for fifteen years, by his side during his Hell on Devil's Island, his dark angel lover, nipping at his skin even as it strangles the last of his humanity from his veins. He glances up from the shining silver, his gaze drawn, as it so often is, out of the window.

And then he sees them. Two lovers, walking past slowly, as though they have no cares in the world. His stomach lurches unpleasantly at the sight of the young woman's flaxen locks. They remind him all too much of another woman's yellow hair, now dirty and matted as she lies in the ground.

The lovers pause outside the pie shop.

Their fingers are laced gently, hands shielding each other from the harsh unknown of a black pit of corrupt and carnal men, a world where a neighbour is more likely to lower his head and walk on by than help out a friend in need. Nothing but black and red exists for Sweeney Todd any more; he has seen too many horrors to ever be a whole man again. There is no joy. It is a path Sweeney Todd walks alone.

Smiles illuminate their faces, bathing their naïve features in a beautiful glow which would make his heart bleed if it wasn't made out of stone. His eyes burn with a frozen fire as he continues to watch, unable to tear his gaze away. If only Lucy was still here. If only, if only, if only.

The young couple are unaware of him intruding on their gentle moment. Their eyes search each other's shyly, finding solace and shelter in the boundless love, sure nothing will ever tear them apart. Fickle, stupid thinking. One day, Todd is sure, they will wake up and learn that the world isn't as kind as they think it is.

But still, they are the ones living in the now, and Todd would sell what is left of his soul to have one more day of peace and happiness that way with his Lucy.

Todd fancies he can hear voices (or is that just his mind, creating more illusions to unhinge him with?), muffled murmurs spoken devoutly into ears. The joy radiating from them, from their perfect life is both mocking and entrancing to watch, like the dancing flames of a fire which are beautiful to behold but will sear the flesh from bone if given half the chance.

Todd looks away. He is no longer human enough to witness such a naïve act.

Envy.

It penetrates his soul, manacles around his chest, squeezing the life from his lungs. It pulverises his stomach like the unforgiving fists of the guards in Botany Bay, bringing him the most torturous pain, closing his throat with the tears that he no longer knows how to release.

It burns like the fires of Hell, choking him with broken remains of What Could Be. Lucy, sitting in the window with a cup of tea and a book, Johanna with her cross stitching on her knee, the two of them smiling softly up at him as he enters the room with a bunch of flowers. The three of them, a proper family.

Reality, a city of ash and broken spirits.

And now, years later, in a landscape that is more miserable than it was before, his envy is rising to compete with his wrath, and while his wrath can be sated with the calming presence of blood for a few blissful moments at a time, there is nothing in the world which can hope to dissipate his yearning for an angel.

And that's what hurts the most.

God, it destroys him. Every day he dies a little more inside, even though his revenge is complete.

The young man leans in to kiss his counterpart's cheek, smiling at her adoringly, not realising that everything he has could be taken away from him in a second _(stupid, foolish man, he doesn't deserve the happiness), _and Sweeney Todd turns with his razor, an angry red film hazing his vision, and drives the cool metal into the arm of the barber chair.

* * *

For the third time that morning, Anthony Hope fumbles with the cargo he is meant to be loading onto the ship. Shaking sweaty hair out of his face he pauses in his work, stomach churning unpleasantly as he looks back to the entrance of the docks. Since he'd arrived here two hours previously, the young sailor has been unable to think of anything but the way the police officer had stared at him. There had been malice in his eyes that was undeniable even from the distance that Anthony had seen him. The look has chilled his blood and left him unable to focus on his work as he usually can.

The look has promised trouble.

"Oy, 'Ope! Get yer bloody 'ead outta them clouds an' do some work! We ain't payin' ya for nothin'!" It's the dock master who is overseeing the ship's loading, and Anthony jerks around as though he's been burnt.

"Sorry, sir," he mutters, straining the muscles in his biceps as he drags the heavy wooden box towards the ship's hold. At once his mind resumed its place on Turpin and the police officer.

He's not going to deny it, he's terrified. He knows little about Turpin, but he was a prominent Judge in the city, and thus knowledge of his ward would be synonymous too. What if murmurings of his fancy of dear Johanna somehow seep into the filthy London streets? What then? He will be tried for sure…and if they can imprison him on sheer coincidence of him hating the man, then it will be done. Anthony sighs heavily, breath clouding the air, and rubs a gloved hand over his eyes. He doesn't know what to do. He is lost. He cannot very well flee the city – he'd promised Johanna he would not leave her here, and he fully intends to uphold this – but he also daren't make himself too much of a public figure in case it arouses suspicion and a lynch mob.

Mr. Todd will know what to do.

Yes, of course. He should consult his dear friend. Mr. Todd has an answer to everything, and for this the young sailor is grateful. As soon as his shift is finished he will go and see the barber in his shop.

"'Ope!"

"What now?" Anthony mutters under his breath, resignedly turning to face his foreman.

He freezes.

The police officer who had spotted him earlier is here.

_Oh, bugger._

Blind panic threatens to darken his mind. He can feel it rising in his body, freezing his brain. What can he do? There is nowhere for him to run. He feels like a rabbit, staring into the blank eyes of a gun before its life is wiped out.

"This 'ere gen'leman wants to speak wi' ya!" the foreman hollers across the yard, and Anthony nods lamely, abandoning his cargo and pulling off his knitted gloves so he can wipe his sweaty palms onto his fraying trousers. _Keep calm,_ he tells himself. _Just keep calm. Everything will be alright._

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asks politely as he approaches the duo, hiding the quaver in his voice quite well. The foreman is staring at him through narrowed, unpleasant eyes, but the policeman is smiling jovially.

"Is there somewhere a little more private where we could speak, please?" he asks the foreman pleasantly, ignoring the man's gnashing teeth.

"There's me office," he says grudgingly. "S'pose ya could use tha'."

"Excellent," the constable says, leading the way towards the grotty building squashed between the ship house and an inn. "Come, young man. We have a few things to discuss."

Anthony shadows him mutely, heart somewhere in the region of his throat. The foreman stares after them suspiciously.

Upon reaching the offices the constable holds the door open for Anthony to pass him. The sailor does so at once, his shoulders trembling just perceptively from what Hawthorne assumes is fear.

The door shuts ominously behind them.

Anthony moves into the centre of the room, hovering by the single wooden chair which stands by a little desk. Hawthorne's heavy tread moves ever closer.

"So…how can I help you, sir?" Anthony repeats, raising a hand to his scruffy hair nervously, heart speeding up in his chest. _Please don't be about the Judge…_

"I'm Officer Charles Hawthorne and I just want a quick chat with you. It's about the death of Judge Turpin." Well, so much for that, then.

"I had no idea about it until this morning," Anthony says at once. "You have to believe that. The first I knew of it was when I saw his body there this morning."

"The body was found very close to your quarters."

"I don't know what you're trying to imply, sir," Anthony said, "but I believe that the body was also found near the lodgings of other people, dumped outside a tavern. Any passing drunk could have done it."

"Any passing drunk doesn't have a grudge against him."

This stops the sailor short. "W – What?"

Hawthorne grins in a feral-like manner. "Tell me, did you know the Judge?"

Anthony falters, visibly sweating now. "I – I've met him a couple of times."

"Yet you haven't been in London long."

"I've been in London for about five months now," he shoots back defensively. "And he is – was – quite a prominent figure in this society –"

Hawthorne taps the cane against the floor, leisurely moving towards one of the wooden chairs. "Don't play games with me, boy. I know."

"Know what?" Anthony says loudly to drown out the blood thumping in his head. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

The policeman smiles unpleasantly. "Well, the Judge did tell me that he'd had the misfortune to meet a young sailor who had taken a fancy to his ward. His description eerily fits you. Care to tell me about that?"

"Judge Turpin interpreted things wrong," Anthony says at once. "He accused me of looking at his ward. I was doing no such thing. I was merely lost, I'd only been in the city for a few hours."

Hawthorne stands abruptly. "Very well," he said. "That will be all for now. But I daresay I'll need a few more words with you soon enough. I'll take me leave now, let you get back to work." He makes his way towards the door with a strangely satisfied expression on his face. At the threshold he turns back to the motionless sailor. "I don't suppose you have any ill feelings about him preventing you from running away with Miss Turpin?"

He leaves then, and Anthony insides explode with panic.

* * *

Pushing up from the devil contraption, Sweeney crosses the room restlessly to the bureau. Running his hand over the mahogany surface, his fingers come to a lay over his razor box. Without breaking eye contact with himself in the cracked mirror, he opens the box.

They sit there, gleaming innocently in the pale London light. He runs his hands reverently over the smooth silver, contrasted beautifully by the velvet niches they sleep in. His teeth bare as a grin overtakes his face. It is not a pleasant expression; if a customer was to walk through the door at this moment then he would surely back out at once with the intention of never returning, so intense is this peculiar mixture of triumph and anguish on the barber's face.

In a box which holds seven razors, five gleam like newly made knives. One is in his holster.

The seventh is missing.

Todd pushes away from the bureau and sinks to his knees in front of the loose plank of wood where Mrs. Lovett had hidden his friends for fifteen endless years. Digging his fingernails between the crevices, he grits his teeth as he yanks the board up.

The little hidey hole is a shallow one, no use for concealing bulky objects. For small things, however, it is perfect.

Casting one last glance at the door to make sure that no one is about to enter (he has flipped the sign to _closed_ but he knows that some ignorant people will choose to ignore it anyway), he lifts a bloodied cloth out of the space. For a suspended second he holds it in his palms, before he begins to unwrap the cloth. Finally his eyes set on his prize.

A razor sits there dully, a king upon a royal throne. The blade is no longer silver.

It is a brownish red. The colour of dried blood.

Todd handles it as though it is a sacred religious item, his fingers running down the length of the blade worshipfully. The blood has seeped into the etchings of the razor, almost black as it catches the light.

Sweeney Todd never intends to clean this razor. It's a fitting reminder of the end of his vengeance. Every time he has a lull in the business he takes it out and rests it in his hands, closing his eyes and tracing his fingers over the crusted edges, replaying the yielding of Turpin's flesh, reminiscing the squirt of hot blood in his face, in his hair, on his teeth, salty in his eyes. The story of his revenge will echo forever in the lines of this razor, telling the tale of a man's rise and fall. Todd smirks grimly, basking in the glory of the kill

_(when he thinks of blood there is no room for Lucy and Johanna for they are too pure to be tarnished with such atrocities)_

and gently replaces the bloodied knife in its shrine. Grimacing against the ache in his knee joints, he replaces the floorboard and stands. Moving back towards the bureau, his gaze flicks over the closed picture frame.

Reality strikes him like a blow to the stomach.

He picks it up, opens it slowly. They sit there, forever frozen in time, a baby and her mother, smiling gently at the camera. Sweeney takes the frame softly in his hands, presses his palm against the glass as though the glass separating him from his beautiful family is the only thing stopping him from making the world right again, as though the fragile barrier will make the years melt away, shatter the time that has passed since the young family was last together, and reunite them.

Sweeney Todd is very much a man who lives in the past, whether it is recalling the euphoric memories of finally exacting his revenge or wallowing on his dead Lucy, who no one could save because hope couldn't keep her alive, or his daughter, now grown up, who has never seen outside her prison because her wings have been clipped.

It is strange how quickly Sweeney Todd can revert between the two, and right now, as he sinks into the barber's chair again, clutching the picture frame so tightly it cuts into his skin, he finds himself drowning in the thought of yellow hair.

Sometimes he believes that he'll hold his breath for so long that he'll run out of air and suffocate on his past, succumbing to death in the perfume of jasmine in the flash of blond.

* * *

Her chance to see Sweeney does not arise until after the dinner rush, and she hurriedly flips the sign so she can't be disturbed again.

"I won't be long," she says to Toby, who is sat munching a sandwich contently. "I'll just take Mr. T 'is lunch an' we'll get back to work. Alright?"

"O' course," he answers, and she flashes him an affectionate grin as she leaves the room. She mounts the stairs quickly, the tea swishing dangerously around the cup as she takes the last ones two at a time. Without bothering to knock, she enters the tonsorial parlour.

"Y'alright, Mr. Todd?" she asks, setting the tray down and placing her hands on her hips. He doesn't seem to have heard her. He is sat in the barber's chair, the picture of his dead wife clutched possessively in his hands. He gazes hungrily at her, drinking in her lovely porcelain features as he runs a finger reverently down her face. Nellie's heart, already shattered into a thousand pieces and raggedly glued back together, cracks a little more at the sight. What she would give to have him stare at _her_ like that. His wife is gone, lost to this world forever, and yet he is still happier letting his dead heart beat for someone who will never appreciate it again.

Nellie's veins sing with jealousy as she takes a tentative step towards him. He still doesn't raise his head, mind spinning with the echo of his ghosts. She wants to tear the frame from his hands, hear the satisfying splinter of the glass under her feet. She wants to scream at him; burst into bitter tears; shake him; ask him why the _hell_ he still wants a memory when he can have her instead…someone breathing, who loves him fiercely, who loves him more than his wife ever did, who would do anything to see him happy…

She blinks the treacherous tears away angrily, sniffing. She cannot dwell on her misery now; it's not the time.

"Mr. T, we need to talk." She is thankful, for the first time, that she doesn't have his undivided attention – her voice is thick with her tumultuous emotions.

"What?" he says, reluctantly tearing his eyes from the picture to glance up at the baker.

She takes a deep breath, then plunges straight on. "'E's been found."

Todd stiffens immediately, his eyes latching onto hers. It brings her a certain bittersweet satisfaction that he is so in tune with her now that she doesn't even have to elaborate for him to understand her.

"When?" he growls, heaving himself to his feet. He begins to pace agitatedly, clicking a razor from his holster as he does so, the picture forgotten for the moment.

Nellie sits herself on the arm of the chair, watching him pace. "Just this mornin', accordin' to the gossip. Apparently Mr. 'Awthorne is in charge of the case. We gotta be careful around 'im; 'e already knows we 'ad a bit of a fallout with 'im. Don't want 'im workin' out it was a revenge attack or nothin'."

He grunts in agreement, opening and closing his razor with a mechanical _swish_ and _click_. His frown is a pondering one. "What do you propose we do, then?"

"I was thinkin' it'd be practical if we went down there ourselves. Makes us look curious, see? Less likely to 'ave done it."

He grins wolfishly, his eyes lighting demonically at the promise of seeing his victim, the author of his pain and suffering, lying there, prone and defeated. "You're a bloody wonder, pet." The renewed energy which sweeps through his entire being rejuvenates his soul; a dark fever which first appeared when Mrs. Lovett cooked up – pardon the pun – the plan to put his victims into pies, and has been with him since those few blissful moments when he basked in the blood of his tormentor returns now, a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So when should we go?"

"We can go now if you want," she says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Ain't got nothin' spoilin'. I can leave Toby 'ere so 'e doesn't get in the way. I don't think 'e'll mind tidyin' up while I'm out. O' course, I'd 'ave to 'ide 'is gin so 'e doesn't get pissed before dinner, but that's alright. 'E came to market with me yesterday, so I'll tell 'im I'm poppin' out to buy 'im some sweets for bein' a good lad. 'E might like some time to 'imself anyway."

"Then I'll be down in just a moment, love." It's the first time Sweeney Todd has ever wanted to leave the room willingly with her, and it saddens her to think that this beautiful man has been tortured so much, haunted into insanity, that he actually derives pleasure from the thought of death. She herself can pretend that death has no effect on her, but she knows it does. Every time she has to hack up another body, she has to close her mind off to the horrors she is committing, her dreams of the sea the only thing to combat the repulsion bubbling just beneath the surface. She has to ignore her revulsion when she brings the cleaver down on a limb, splitting skin and oozing blood. This new man can wield death in his hand and feel nothing as he watches life drain away. He is a demon from Hell itself…but it doesn't stop her loving him. And that's her curse, she supposes. To forever be the submissive slave, in the futile hope that one day he'll notice her and realise what he's had all along. And this is when it comes full circle, back to the old heartache of young love, and to the early demise of a naïve young man.

Shaking her head to dispel these envious thoughts once more, she hitches her skirts and descends the stairs.

"Toby?" she calls, and the boy emerges from behind the counter, clutching a wet rag in one hand. "Change of plan, dear. Mr. T an' I are goin' out for a walk. We're gonna bring you some sweets back for bein' a good lad. You'll be alright on your own for a bit? You can leave this mess if ya want, I can 'elp ya tidy it up when I get back."

Toby's eye shadow at the mention of the barber, but he tries to hide it with a smile which is slightly strained. "No, it's fine. I'll get it nice an' tidy for the evenin' rush, Mum."

"If you're sure. Thanks, love." She ruffles his hair as she passes, reaching up to snatch the bottle of gin from its home while the boy's back is turned, grabbing her hat from the parlour and a shawl from her bedroom to combat the cold. She leaves the gin hidden under her bed.

"We won't be too long, I shouldn't think. Be'ave yourself," she says when she returns.

"I will," the boy promises, and she leaves him with a smile.

Mr. Todd is waiting for her outside the pie shop, the hungry anticipation still glowing in his dark eyes. The dangerous look sends shivers careening down her spine, fear and lust mingling to create a delicious headiness.

"Come on then, dear," she says, taking him by the elbow. "Let's put on a show."

They walk in silence down Fleet Street, Nellie taking advantage of the barber's rare good mood to slip her arm through his. He doesn't throw her off, which she takes as a good sign; the dark, feverish energy consuming him leaves him susceptible to human contact for a short while. It's something Nellie does not allow to pass up.

They hurry down the winding streets to the docks, making sure to keep their faces set as they step casually onto the street.

"You see anythin', love?" Nellie mutters to him as she glances around on the pretence of scouring a fishmonger's selection of fish. Beside her, Todd shakes his head.

"Well, we're not to far off, I don't think," Nellie wrinkles her nose as she tries to conjure the place where they dumped the Judge to mind. "Mind, everythin' looks so different in the dark. C'mon, let's just take a walk down 'ere."

Sweeney allows her to drag him along by her side, his gaze fixated ahead. And then he sees it. If his eyes are not deceiving him, he can see a crowd just up ahead…

Nellie is oblivious to it all as she chatters aimlessly, spending more time looking up into his face than where she is going; Sweeney finds himself pulling her out of the way of some unsuspecting citizen far more times than he'd like to.

"I think I see it," he says quietly, in the hopes of shutting her up. It appears to work for a moment; his landlady's head whips around to follow his gaze, and she gasps audibly.

"Why, Mr. T," she says, "I think you're right. Now, 'ow are we goin' to play this?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he growls, "there are other people looking too, pet. I doubt anyone will pay attention to more spectators."

"Well, ya never know. Don't want us lookin' too much out of place."

"Mrs. Lovett, it was your idea to come here."

"Well, I just thought you'd like to see it, dear. Just don't do anythin' silly." He stares at her, and she flushes under his gaze. "You know what I mean. Don't make it obvious that you're 'appy 'e's dead. Be shocked."

"Yes, pet," he mutters, before pulling away from her to duck into the crowd. Cursing under her breath, Nellie tries to follow him to the front, making good use of her elbows to gain access.

"Move outta the way," she hisses at the fat bloke blocking her view, "I wanna 'ave a look. You've 'ad your turn."

The man looks disgruntled but complies, and she manages to latch onto Todd's arm as he nears the front –

She gasps.

Sweeney looks around, managing not to growl. What can possibly be wrong now…?

Her eyes are fixated straight ahead, and Todd turns to follow her gaze.

And finally he sees it. Nellie is scrutinising his face closely and does not miss the triumphant smile which crosses the barber's face as he glares down at his fallen adversary. The skin of his throat flaps uselessly, splitting the skin clean in two. The blood has congealed in the cold, a mass of gross clots. The hands are bloodstained from where he had desperately, fruitlessly, tried to plug the wound. Nellie lays a warning hand on Sweeney's arm as he stares at the sight, mesmerised by the gory beauty of the masterpiece he has created, but he brushes her off as he steps closer to his fallen nemesis, thinks back

_(and he'd been too shocked to cry out, too numb to protest as he listened to the sentence he was supposed to serve – a lifetime in Australian penal colonies for the crime of rape – and then the Judge, Judge Turpin, had glared down at him with disgust and sent him away –) _

to how this man had torn his world apart. Now it is over. Now he is free.

_But I'll never be free, will I?_ he acknowledges sardonically as he looks down upon the man who has ruined his life forever. _Because he took everything worth living for away from me. Before, I had to live so I could avenge Lucy…now I cannot die because the Devil won't allow me to._

Turpin is free now though, oh yes. Bested once more by the Devil, is Sweeney Todd.

_I can't help Johanna. She knows nothing of her father. She only wants Anthony now._

Mrs. Lovett is touching his arm again, gently steering him away; he tries to resist her but she is surprisingly strong for such a small woman.

"C'mere love…dunno what I was thinkin' bringin' you 'ere…silly mistake…"

He lets her ramble as she drags him across the street. He blocks out her voice as his eyes continue to seek out the Judge, his heart thumping loudly in his ears as though it is mocking his greatest wish to just cease to be.

_Benjamin is gone._

_Lucy is gone._

_Johanna is gone._

_The Judge and Beadle are dead._

_I have nothing to live for anymore._

* * *

Smirking in a self-satisfied sort of way, Hawthorne makes his way back to the crime scene, tapping his cane on the cobbles, dodging the jostling crowds in the way. The city of London is truly alive now; in the slums children frolic bare footed, chasing each other through the roiling congregation with cries of happiness. Adults advertise their trades on street corners; vegetables, shoe-makers, the works. Hawthorne ignores it all. He is deep in thought.

It is concrete now that the boy had not killed the Judge. The innocent curiosity is still present in his eyes. He knows nothing of what has occurred, of this the police officer is sure. However, there is still the matter of the sailor's infatuation with Turpin's ward to address.

Hawthorne thinks that he has achieved his goal by paying a visit to the Hope boy: to panic him. Hawthorne had heard from Turpin that the lad had been a sort of friend to Mr. Todd. If there is anyone the sailor will go to for help, it will be Sweeney Todd.

This way, Charles Hawthorne hopes he can flush them out.

Not Mr. Todd's, he doubts; from the little he has seen of the barber, he does not seem like the type of man who would be willing to help others. Perhaps he has always been a cold-hearted individual, but something tells Charles Hawthorne not. He will have to look into it more. He _will_ get answers.

But back to the task at hand: flushing them out.

Mrs. Lovett will be the one to break first. Intuition tells him that she is a very kindly soul; he only has to look at the way she has taken the barber in when he first arrived in London despite how it might look, and the way she gives the street urchin a roof over his head every night. She will not want someone else to take the blame for something that is not their fault, and it seems only feasible that she will be acquainted with the sailor lad if he is friends with Mr. Todd. Mayhaps learning that the sailor is suspected of murder will be enough to get the baker to open her mouth and speak the truth. He is sure that she will not lie for the barber over protecting an innocent boy's life.

Hawthorne almost smiles at his own ingenuity.

* * *

Toby swipes at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand, tossing the old brush into the corner as he finishes up his chores. Glancing conspicuously through the windows to make sure that the barber and the baker are not returning, Toby grabs a chair and hoists himself onto it, peering at the dusty shelves behind the pie counter in search of gin. There is none.

Scowling at his luck, he hops off the seat and replaces it before traipsing into the parlour to stare morosely into the grate. He cannot understand Mrs. Lovett. Even now she cannot seem to leave Mr. Todd alone for two minutes. Why does _he_ need to accompany her on a walk? Isn't he, Toby, more up to the job? If any of the blighters who hang around the street corners like some sort of plague put their hands on her, can Mr. Todd be trusted to protect her? Somehow, Toby thinks not.

And what does she see in him? Toby knows that she loves the barber beyond reason, but are there any

reasons to in the first place? They boy has never seen him speak a kind word to her in all the months he has lived here, if he deigns to speak to her at all. Most of the time he doesn't even acknowledge her presence. And still she loves him. He wishes she'd stayed with her first love. At least he'd sounded kind…before he'd left Toby's dear Mum, of course.

Falling back on the loveseat, Toby glares moodily at the ceiling. He's loathe to admit it, but he despises it. He despises the fact that he has to share his mother's attentions with a man who doesn't even want hers.

He is jealous.

He just wants Mr. Todd out of their home so the two of them can live as a proper family. As long as the barber is around, Toby will have to share her with him, and he doesn't want that. He just wants the kind of bond with her that he never experienced with his own mother.

He wants her to himself.

Every time he sees her out there, talking with Mr. Todd secretively, with a hand on his arm, Toby's dreams of living happily with her crack a little more.

As long as the barber is around and as long as Mrs. Lovett continues to stand by him faithfully, things will end in tragedy.

That's the last thing he wants.

Is it so wrong to want a family to call his own without Mr. Todd there to destroy everything?

* * *

As soon as the call for dinnertime sounds, Anthony leaves, not bothering to grab his bag, attempting to keep his panic under control. In his current state there is only one thing that keeps passing through his mind like a venomous snake, and the antidote that goes with it: _they think I did it. I must get to Johanna._

He takes the long route around, anything to avoid going near the crime scene again. The last thing he wants is for Mr. Hawthorne to corner him alone again with more damning questions. Anthony Hope is not equipped to deal with those sorts of situations.

He bursts onto Main Street, ignoring the questioning glances sent his way as the citizens watch him dash across the street as though Hell is snapping at his heels. His lungs are on fire, fit to burst, but he does not relent his current speed. He cannot afford to.

Ten minutes later the winter flowers begin to bloom more beautifully and the trees stand tall. Anthony has arrived in the richer part of London. Slowing his pace to a walk and swiping locks of sweaty hair out of his flushed face, the sailor begins to make his way towards the Judge's former residence, mind working furiously.

How will he get inside?

He sits himself on the bench where he first heard Johanna's beautiful voice, biting on his lip as he stares up at the grand house. Much to his dismay, Johanna is not at her window. He'd been hoping that she would be at her window; all he would have needed to do was let her see him and silently ask for permission to see her. Easier to do than the thing he has to do now. Still, there is nothing else for it.

Steeling his nerve, Anthony stands, trying hard not to think of his mussed hair, his patchy coat, his mud-caked shoes, his scuffed trousers. He crosses the road as confidently as he can, conscious of the way his back slumps forward, as though in defeat. The house looms in front of him, dark and opposing, daring him to enter a place where he is forbidden.

Anthony raises the knocker, and lets it fall.

The door opens with an ominous creak, and the sailor finds himself staring at an eye that has appeared in the crack.

"May I help you?" a woman's voice sounds from behind the wood.

"Um, yes," Anthony begins, praying to whatever god will listen that the quiver in his voice is not noticeable. "My name is William Andrews, I'm an officer with the London force and I've been sent here to speak with Miss Turpin over the state of our enquiry."

The eye he can see narrows. "You don't _look_ like a police officer. And one has already been here this morning to speak with Miss Turpin."

_Damn,_ Anthony thinks, but keeps the easy smile present on his face. "I'm aware of that. It was Mr. Hawthorne, if I'm correct in saying so, ma'am?"

"Yes, that was it." The fact that he knows who called seems to have boosted Anthony's rank in the woman's eyes. "But why have they sent you here again now?"

"I was getting ready for my shift, ma'am, when I was summoned by one of my superiors, telling me that I should make my over here at once. There may be a development in the case, but we can only speak to Miss Turpin about it."

The woman seems to be sizing him up; battling an internal war. But at last she stands aside, allowing the sailor access, revealing herself as a stocky woman with grey hair.

"Miss Turpin is in her room," the maid says. "She's had quite a shock this morning. Please, make your way to the study. It's the first door on the right. I shall bring Miss. Turpin along to you."

Anthony nods and thanks her, setting off for the study. He can remember its location from his last visit.

Everything looks the same. The books on harlots and geishas stand in pristine condition on the huge bookcase. The armchairs are still cushy and untouched. The tapestries on the wall continue to stare at him reproachfully.

And then the door opens, and Johanna is ushered inside. The door closes after her as the maid leaves them alone. For a moment neither of them speaks.

"Anthony?" she says at length, as though she can't quite believe that he is standing in front of her. She extends her hand listlessly. "Is that really you? Or am I dreaming again?"

"It's really me," he says, taking half a step towards her. "How are you? Are you okay?"

She ignores him, a slightly hysterical note working its way into her voice. "Where have you been? I thought you'd abandoned me!"

He shakes his head, eyes wide. "I could never abandon you, Johanna! I promised you that I wouldn't, didn't I? I've been past your house every day, hoping for a glimpse of you, but you've never been there!"

She accepts this with a nod; somehow, she knows he isn't lying. "How did you get in here?" she asks him. "I thought you were an officer from what Mrs. Fenshawe told me."

"I had to see you," Anthony replies. "I wanted to make sure you were coping."

Her voice wavers. "So you've heard?"  
Anthony nods, swallowing. "I saw this morning."

"You saw?"

"It was horrible."

She nods. "I can imagine. I don't want to see him."

"That's good."

"Look…you really shouldn't be here," she tells him softly. "It's dangerous. People will be suspicious."

Anthony takes a deep breath. "They think I killed him."

Johanna can't find words. "What?" she says hoarsely, after an age. "What are you talking about?"

"I had a visit from Mr. Hawthorne this morning. He all but accused me outright of doing it. But I swear I didn't!" he adds when she gasps in horror, "I promise I didn't. I could never do anything like that. I'm not a murderer, Johanna, you have to believe me."

"Of course I do," she says, taking a tentative step closer to him. "I trust you, Anthony."

"Oh, thank God," he breaths as he closes the gap between them, hugging her fiercely and losing himself in the scent of blond hair. "Thank God. Honestly Johanna, I was so afraid that you wouldn't believe me, and that you'd turn me into the police. I think I would have died if you had done that."

He is a good few inches taller than she is, and she tucks her head under his chin easily, clinging to him all the harder as she listens to his heart pounding beneath her ear. She can smell the fear on him, mingling with the fish of the docks and the musty smell of old bed sheets. It is a rather comforting smell, so very different from the pristine, clean smell of Turpin's home. She thinks that it is a smell she can well become accustomed to.

"What are you to do now?" she asks him finally, turning her head to muffle the words in his starchy overcoat.

His grip on her tightens. "I can't stay here, I know that," he tells her softly. "If they truly suspect that I did it, then they will arrest me for sure. I cannot be condemned for something I have not done, Johanna, I can't."

After hearing his initial words and cursing herself for being so selfish when her heart sinks, Johanna squeezes him affectionately. "Of course you can't. You must run. You will not be safe in London. Perhaps not even in England. Though, I will miss your visits."

"And that's what I'm here to talk to you about," Anthony says, pulling back slightly so he can look into her puzzled brown eyes. "I have a request I wish to put to you."

"Go on, please," she prompts. "What is it?"

"I know I have to leave because I don't want to be imprisoned," he says, then pauses, blushing faintly, "but I can also understand that this is your home and I don't want to make you miserable by taking you away."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," she starts, but he presses a finger to her lips.

"I'm suggesting, if you have no objection, that you elope with me. I love you, Johanna, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but that can only work if you want the same thing. And the last thing I want to do is pressure you into a decision that you don't want to make, so I don't have to have an answer right away…but I would like it very much if you came with me."

Johanna is stunned. She can only stare in bewilderment.

Although she'd cared for her guardian a little, for years she has dreamed of escape. For years she has sat by her window gazing at the streets below, envisaging imaginary lives for each person, wondering what it would be like to have a family of her own. And now her opportunity to break the shackles that bind her to this living Hell has come along, and she is terrified.

Does she really _want_ to escape?

But then she looks up into Anthony's warm brown eyes and gives herself a mental shake. Of course she does. She wants that more than anything. The Judge had never mistreated her, but she has been neglected far too much when it comes to her freedom and her origins. Anthony can offer her the former. He can take her anywhere she wishes because he loves her, and he will do anything for her – she can see it in his eyes. Never in her life has she witnessed such a look, and she's never dared to dream that it would one day be directed at her.

Can she afford to lose her only chance of escape?

No, she can't. Of course she can't.

"I'll come with you," she hears herself saying breathlessly. "I'll follow you anywhere, Anthony."

The sailor's face lights up like a Christmas tree as her words sink in, and he pulls her into his arms once more.

"Do you mean it?" he asks.

"I mean it."

The space between them shrinks rapidly, and he brushes his nose against hers. His hair tickles her cheek.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, nuzzling against her, and she finds herself falling irresistibly into him.

"Yes," she somehow manages to choke, "yes."

And then his lips descend on hers, taking her breath away. He kisses her quickly and furtively, over and over again, a love forbidden. She matches him, pushing herself closer to him, feeling her cheeks flush with ardour.

At last he parts from her, unable to resist kissing her forehead once. "I need to plan our escape. It must be soon. I shall return as soon as I have made arrangements for us. I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise, my love."

"I know you will," she smiles, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. "How will you plan it?"

Determination sparks in the young sailor's eyes as he releases her from his grip. "I know someone, a barber. Mr. Todd will be willing to help me."

* * *

Standing across the street, obscured by a carriage whose owner is trying to flog it, Hawthorne smiles. There they are. Vultures are always drawn by death, and this is no exception. From his vantage point, Hawthorne can pinpoint every move his adversaries make. He sees Lovett pulling on Todd's arm, watches as she palms his cheek in her hand as she turns to speak to him, raising herself onto her tiptoes to level his height advantage over her. She speaks quietly to him, and he stands stiffly, as though he is not listening to the words she whispers to him yet is powerless to look away all the same.

It appears that Mr. Todd is falling under his landlady's spell too. Hawthorne's smile widens. This could become very interesting, especially if the barber needs a little _persuasion_ in owning up.

Bait.

But now is not the time to be thinking of such things. There is plenty of time for planning later on, burning the oil in his kerosene lamp until the early hours of the morning, sat in his shirtsleeves.

Now is the time for action.

* * *

"…an' that's exactly what be'aviour I was goin' on about earlier, Mr. T, people notice that kind of thing an' 's'not good if they see you lookin' all 'ungry-like 'round 'im, might put 'em off comin' to the shop or – worse still – they might go to the law wi' their sneakin' qualms…I dunno, love, 'onestly…" Nellie is rambling, then sighs as Todd finally finds it within himself to pull away from her intrusive palm. He hates her for making sense, her whispered reasons why it looks suspicious that he is staring hungrily at the dead Judge. He can't quite grasp why he had been unable to draw away from her warm palm, but he decides to worry about that later. There are more important matters at hand now. Like –

"Let's get 'ome before anyone notices us," Nellie supplies his thoughts, glancing slightly nervously around the vicinity. "C'mon, love."

She slips her arm through the crook of his. He shoots her a look, but says nothing. Scanning the street quietly, Nellie surmises that the quickest way out is to take one of the side streets. But does that look more suspicious, disappearing into an unsavoury area? Just as she is about to consult the barber, a voice hails them.

"Mrs. Lovett! Mr. Todd!"

She freezes.

_Shit._

She is sure she has heard that voice before. If only she could place it…Sweeney is frowning, as though he is trying to do the same thing…

And then it hits her.

Charles Hawthorne. The late Judge's new companion.

A police constable.

Nellie's blood freezes.

What can they do? They are trapped like rats by a cat, there is nowhere for them to run –

Then Sweeney's hand touches hers briefly as he brushes her off, a deliberate touch that staves off her panic for the second time in the officer's presence. Taking a deep breath, she plasters a false smile onto her face. They must face this head-on. She'll be damned if she is the one to give her barber up. She loves her far too much to put him in danger.

"Why, 'ello there, Mr. 'Awthorne," she says brightly, feigning surprise. "Fancy seein' you 'ere! We just 'eard 'Is 'Onour 'as been found dead! Don't suppose you could enlighten us, eh?"

Hawthorne smiles charmingly back at her. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Lovett. It's an official police investigation, you understand. I cannot give out any details at the current time."

"Oh," the baker looks crestfallen. "Not even the cause o' death?"

"The only thing that I can tell you is that it was murder."

"Yeah, we guessed that from 'is state. Any ideas on who did it?"

"Mrs. Lovett…"

She laughs easily. "Alright, I know. You can't tell." She flashes him a brilliant smile. "Worth a try though, eh?"

"I can't say that I don't enjoy your charms," he smiles, and she laughs. Mr. Todd stands by stoically.

"Anyway, you must excuse me, good sir," Mrs. Lovett says. "I've left my li'le Toby cleanin' up the pie shop, an' I should be gettin' back to 'elp 'im."

"Of course. I shall drop by at some point for another one of your delectable pies, if that's alright."

"Anytime, sir. I'd be 'appy to serve you."

"Then perhaps tonight?"

The smile drops from the baker's face for a split second, but she recovers quickly. "Splendid."

"Only, there are some things that I need to consult you over."

"Can I ask you what?"

"It's nothing to worry about, my good lady. Just general things. You've lived on Fleet Street quite a while from what I can gather, and I was merely wondering if you would be able to help me by answering a few questions."

That brilliant smile again, a cheeky wink to accompany it, though Hawthorne can see both actions are slightly strained. "O' course, anytime ya like. Now, it was lovely seein' you, but we really should be goin'. Come on Mr. T, love."

Hawthorne tips his hat at her as she slips her arm into the barber's again. He grunts – his way of saying farewell, Hawthorne supposes – and barber and baker disappear into the crowd.

The smile slips off the constable's face at once. Turning away, he begins to cross the street towards Brooks, where Mr. Alexanders from the coroner's office has just arrived.

The game of cat and mouse can now commence.


End file.
